^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^B? 

I 


I 


PLAYS  BY 
AUGUST   STRINDBERG 

CREDITORS 
PARIAH 


PLAYS   BY   AUGUST  STIUXDBERG 
Pi  BUSHED  BT  CHARLES  SCRIBXER'S  SONS 


CREDITORS.     PARUH 

7r»  cents  net ;  pos'ago  extra 

MISS  JULIA.     THE  STRONGER 

75  cont«  net ;  iKMtage  extra 

THERE  KRE  CRIMES  AND  CRIMES 

7.'>  wnus  nrt ;  ixMtaffO  extra 

PLAYS  :  The  Drram  PUy.    The  Unk.  The  Dence   of 
Death -Part  I  and  Part  II 

91.50  net;  pc»ta«o  extra 


PLAYS  BY 

AUGUST  STRINDBERG 

CREDITORS 
PARIAH 


TRANSLATED   FROM   THE   SWEDISH,    WITH    IXTRODUCTION3   BT 

EDAVIN   BJORKMAN 


AUTHORIZED  EDITION 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1912 


ComuOHT.    1912.  BT 

CHARLES  SCRIBNERS  SONS 
Publkhod  October.  1012 


?■ 


CONTENTS 

I>AOE 

Introduction  to  "Creditors" 1 

Creditors 7 

Introduction  to  "Pariah" C3 

Pariah C9 


c»i;::n:r;0'g 


CREDITORS 


CREDITORS 
INTRODUCTION 

This  is  one  of  the  three  plaj's  which  Strindberg  placed  at 
the  head  of  his  dramatic  production  during  the  middle  ultra- 
naturalistic  period,  tlie  other  two  being  "The  Father"  and 
"Miss  Julia."  It  is,  in  many  waj^s,  one  of  the  strongest  he 
ever  produced.  Its  rarely  excelled  unity  of  construction,  its 
tremendous  dramatic  tension,  and  its  wonderful  psychological 
analysis  combine  to  make  it  a  masterpiece. 

In  Swedish  its  name  is  "Fordringsagare."  This  indefinite 
form  may  be  either  singular  or  plural,  but  it  is  rarely  used 
except  as  a  plural.  And  the  play  itself  makes  it  perfectly 
clear  that  the  proper  translation  of  its  title  is  "Creditors," 
for  under  this  aspect  appear  both  the  former  and  the  present 
husband  of  Tehla.  One  of  the  main  objects  of  the  play  is  to 
reveal  her  indebtedness  first  to  one  and  then  to  the  other 
of  these  men,  wKiie  all  the  time  she  is  posmg  as  a  perso'n  of 
original  gifts.  ~~  '^~~ 

I  have  little  doubt  that  Strindberg,  at  the  time  he  wrote 
this  play — and  bear  in  mind  that  this  happened  only  a  year 
before  he  finally  decided  to  free  himself  from  an  impossible 
marriage  by  an  appeal  to  the  law — believed  Tekla  to  be  fairly 
representative  of  womanhood  in  general.  The  utter  unreason- 
ableness of  such  a  view  need  hardly  be  pointed  out,  and  I  shall 
waste  no  time  on  it.  A  question  more  worthy  of  discussion 
is  whether  the  figure  of  Tekla  be  true  to  life  merely  as  the 
picture  of  a  personality — as  one  out  of  numerous  imaginable 


4  CREDITORS 

variations  on  a  t^-pe  decided  not  by  sex  but  by  faculties  and 
qualities.  And  the  same  question  may  well  be  raised  in  re- 
gard to  the  two  men,  both  of  whom  are  evidently  intended  to 
win  our  sympathy:  one  as  the  victim  of  a  fate  stronger  than 
himself,  and  the  other  as  the  conqueror  of  adverse  and  hu- 
miliating circumstances. 

Personally,  I  am  inclined  to  doubt  whether  a  Tclda  can  l>e 
found  in  tlie  flesh— and  even  if  found,  she  might  seem  too 
exceptional  to  gain  acceptance  as  a  real  individuality.  It 
must  be  remembered,  however,  that,  in  spite  of  his  avowed 
realism,  Strindlarg  did  not  draw  his  men  and  women  in  the 
spirit  generally  designated  as  impressionistic;  that  Is,  with 
the  idea  that  they  might  step  straight  from  his  pages  into  life 
and  there  win  recognition  as  human  Ix'ings  of  familiar  aspiH-t. 
His  realism  is  always  mixed  with  i«lealism;  his  figures  are 
always  "dcK-tored,"  so  to  speak.  And  they  have  Int-n  thus 
treated  in  order  to  enable  liieir  creator  to  drive  home  the 
particular  truth  he  is  just  then  concerne<l  with. 

Consciously  or  unconsciously  he  sought  to  produce  what 
may  be  designated  as  "pure  cultures"  of  certain  human 
qualities.  But  these  he  took  great  pains  to  arrange  in  their 
proper  psychological  settings,  for  mental  and  moral  cjualilies, 
like  everything  else,  run  in  groups  that  are  more  or  less  har- 
monious, if  not  exactly  homogeneous.  The  man  with  a  single 
quality,  like  Moliere's  Uarpagon,  was  much  too  primitive  and 
crude  for  Strindbcrg's  art,  as  he  liiinsclf  rightly  asserti^l  in 
his  preface  to  "Miss  Julia."  When  he  wanted  to  draw  the 
genius  of  greed,  so  to  sinak.  he  did  it  by  .setting  it  in  the 
midst  of  related  qualities  of  a  kind  most  likely  to  be  attracted 
by  it. 

Tekla  Is  such  a  "pure  culture"  of  a  group  of  naturally  cor- 
relaletl  mental  and  moral  qualities  and  functions  and  tenden- 
cies— of  a  personality  built  up  logically  around  a  dominant 


INTRODUCTION  5 

central  note.  There  are  within  all  of  us  many  personalities, 
gome  of  which  remain  for  ever  potentialities.  But  it  is  con- 
ceivable that  any  one  of  them,  under  circumstances  different 
from  those  in  which  we  have  been  living,  might  have  developed 
into  its  severely  logical  consequence — or,  if  you  please,  into 
a  human  being  that  would  be  held  abnormal  if  actually  en- 
countered. 

This  is  exactly  what  Strindberg  seems  to  have  done  time 
and  again,  both  in  his  middle  and  final  periods,  in  his  novels 
as  well  as  in  his  plays.  In  all  of  us  a  TeJda,  an  Adolph,  a 
Giistav — or  a  Jean  and  a  Miss  Julia — lie  more  or  less  dormant. 
And  if  we  search  our  souls  unsparingly,  I  fear  the  result  can 
only  be  an  admission  that — had  the  needed  set  of  circum- 
stances been  provided — we  might  have  come  unpleasantly 
close  to  one  of  those  Strindbergian  creatures  which  we  are 
now  inclined  to  reject  as  unhuman. 

Here  we  have  the  secret  of  what  I  believe  to  be  the  great 
Swedish  dramatist's  strongest  hold  on  our  interest.  How 
could  it  otherwise  happen  that  so  many  critics,  of  such  widely 
differing  temperaments,  have  recorded  identical  feelings  as 
springing  from  a  study  of  his  work:  on  one  side  an  active 
resentment,  a  keen  unwillingness  to  be  interested;  on  the 
other,  an  attraction  that  would  not  be  denied  in  spite  of  reso- 
lute resistance  to  it!  For  Strindberg  does  hold  us,  even  when 
we  regret  his  power  of  doing  so.  And  no  one  familiar  with  the 
conclusions  of  modern  psychology  could  imagine  such  a  para- 
dox possible  did  not  the  object  of  oiu-  sorely  divided  feelings 
provide  us  with  something  that  our  minds  instinctively  recog- 
nise as  true  to  life  in  some  way,  and  for  that  reason  valuable 
to  the  art  of  living. 

There  are  so  many  ways  of  presenting  truth.  Strindberg's 
is  only  one  of  them — and  not  the  one  commonly  employed 
nowadays.     Its  main  fault  lies  perhaps  in  being  too  intellectual. 


G  CREDITORS 

too  abstract.  For  while  Strindherg  was  intensely  emotional, 
and  while  this  fact  colours  all  his  writings,  he  could  only 
express  himself  through  his  reason.  An  emotion  that  would 
move  another  man  to  murder  would  precipitate  Strindlu-rg 
into  merciless  analysis  of  his  own  or  somelMxly  else's  mental 
and  moral  make-up.  At  any  rate.  I  do  not  pnK-laim  his  way 
of  presenlinfi  truth  as  the  l>est  one  of  all  available.  But 
I  susiKHt^tMt_Jjii^tTi(K^lIv  strange  way  of  Strindt>erg'a 
—resulting  in  such  repulsively^  superior  beings  as  Guitar, 
or  in  such  grievously  inferior  on^'s  as  Adolph — pmy  come 
nearer  the  temper^and  nec<ls  of  the  future  than  do  the  ways 
jjT  mucl}jnorcj)Jausn2lt_wrntrs^  'I'liis  does  not  need  to  im- 
ply that  the  future  will  imitate  StrindlnTg.  But  it  may 
ascertain  what  he  aimifl  at  doing,  antl  llien  do  it  with  a 
degree  of  perfection  which  he,  the  piouct-r.  c-ould  never  hoin.* 
to  attuiu. 


CREDITORS 

A    TRAGICOMEDY 
1889 


PERSONS 

Tekla 

Adolpm,  hrr  liii.<>han({,  a  painter 

GubTAV.  her  dirnreed  husband,  a  high-ichool  teacher  {who  i$ 
traccUing  umUr  an  assumed  nanu) 

S  C  E  N  E 

A  parlor  in  a  summer  hotel  on  the  sea-shore.  The  rear  ira/i 
has  a  door  o])ening  on  a  reranda,  l>eyond  trhieh  is  seen  a  land- 
scape. To  the  right  of  the  door  stands  a  table  irith  neirsjHtjters 
nn  it.  There  is  a  chair  on  the  left  side  of  the  stage.  To  the  right 
of  the  table  stands  a  sofa.  A  door  on  the  right  leads  to  an  adjoin- 
ing room. 


|i 


CREDITORS 

Adolpii  and  Gustav,  the  latter  seated  on  tJie  sofa  by  the  table 
to  the  right. 

Adolph.  [At  work  on  a  wax  figure  on  a  miniature  modelling 
stand;  his  crutches  are  placed  beside  him]  — and  for  all  this  I 
have  to  thank  you ! 

Gustav.  [Smoking  a  cigar]  Oh,  nonsense! 

Adolph.  Why,  certainly!  During  the  first  days  after  my 
wife  had  gone,  I  lay  helpless  on  a  sofa  and  did  nothing  but 
long  for  her.  It  was  as  if  she  had  taken  away  my  crutches 
with  her,  so  that  I  couldn't  move  from  the  spot.  When  I  had 
slept  a  couple  of  days,  I  seemed  to  come  to,  and  began  to  pull 
myself  together.  My  head  calmed  down  after  having  been 
working  feverishly.  Old  thoughts  from  days  gone  by  bobbed 
up  again.  The  desire  to  work  and  the  instinct  for  creation 
came  back.  My  eyes  recovered  their  faculty  of  quick  and 
straight  vision — and  then  you  showed  up, 

Gustav.  I  admit  you  were  in  a  miserable  condition  when 
I  first  met  you,  and  you  had  to  use  your  crutches  when  you 
walked,  but  this  is  not  to  say  that  my  presence  has  been  the 
cause  of  your  recovery.  You  needed  a  rest,  and  you  had  a 
craving  for  masculine  company. 

Adolph.  Oh,  that's  true  enough,  like  everything  you  say. 
Once  I  used  to  have  men  for  friends,  but  I  thought  them  super- 
fluous after  I  married,  and  I  felt  quite  satisfied  with  the  one 
I  had  chosen.  Later  I  was  drawn  into  new  circles  and  made  a 
lot  of  acquaintances,  but  my  wife  was  jealous  of  them — she 
wanted  to  keep  me  to  herself:  worse  still — she  wanted  also 

9 


10  CREDITORS 

to  keep  my  friends  to  herself.  And  so  I  was  left  alone  with 
my  own  jealousy. 

Gl'stav.  Yes,  you  have  a  strong  tendency  towartl  that 
kind  of  disease. 

Adoli'H.  I  was  afraid  of  losing  her — and  I  tritxl  to  prevent 
it.  There  Ls  nothing  strange  in  that.  But  I  was  never  afraid 
that  she  might  Ik*  deceiving  me 

GusTAV.  No,  that's  what  marrie<l  men  arc  never  afraid  of. 

Adoi.pii.  Yes,  isn't  it  queer?  What  I  really  fearetl  was  that 
her  friends  would  get  such  an  influence  over  her  that  they 
would  Ix'gin  to  exercLse  .si»me  kin«l  of  indirect  power  over  me — 
and  that  is  something  I  couldn't  Inrar. 

CrsTAV.  S)  your  ideas  d(»n't  agree — yours  and  your  wife's? 

.\DOLrH.  SnMiig  that  you  have  heani  mt  much  aln-ady,  I 
may  a.s  well  tell  you  everything.  My  wife  has  an  indejH:ndent 
nature — what  are  you  smiling  at? 

GusTAV.  Go  on!    She  ha.s  an  independent  nature 

Adoi.pii.  Which  caniu»t  accept  anything  from  mc 

GusTAV.   But  from  everylnxly  el.se. 

Adoi.pii.  [-iftfr  a  pause]  Yes. — .\nd  it  liMikol  as  if  she 
especially  hate<l  my  ideas  Inx-au-se  they  were  mine,  and  not 
because  tluTc  was  anything  wrong  alM>ut  them.  For  it  usiti 
to  happen  (piitc  often  that  she  advanceil  idras  that  had  once 
heen  mine,  and  that  she  stcxMl  up  for  them  as  her  own.  Yes, 
it  even  hapiKMn-d  that  friends  of  mine  gave  her  idea.s  which 
tlii-y  had  taken  dinx-tly  fn>m  me,  an<l  then  they  seem***!  all 
right.    Everything  was  all  right  except  what  came  from  m«-. 

GusTAV.  Which  means  that  you  arc  not  entirely  happy? 

AiK>i.PH.  Oh  yes,  I  am  happy.  I  have  the  one  I  wanted, 
and  I  have  never  wanteil  anylnxly  else. 

GrsT.w.  And  you  have  never  wanted  to  Ik*  free? 

Adolph.  No,  I  can't  say  that  I  have.  Oh,  well,  sometimes 
I  have  imagined  that  it  might  seem  like  a  rest  to  Ijc  free.    But 


CREDITORS  11 

the  moment  she  leaves  me,  I  begin  to  long  for  her — long  for 
her  as  for  ray  own  arras  and  legs.  It  is  queer  tliat  soraetinies 
I  have  a  feeling  that  she  is  nothing  in  herself,  hut  only  a  part 
of  myself — an  organ  that  can  take  away  with  it  ray  will,  ray 
very  desire  to  live.  It  seems  almost  as  if  I  had  deposited 
with  her  that  centre  of  vitality  of  which  the  anatomical  books 
tell  us. 

GusTAV.  Perhaps,  when  we  get  to  the  bottom  of  it,  that  is 
just  what  has  happened. 

Adolpii.  How  could  it  be  so?    Is  she  not  an  independent 
being,  with  thoughts  of  her  own.'    And  when  I  met  her  I  was 
nothing — a  child  of  an  artist  whom  she  undertook  to  educate. 
GusTAV.  But  later  you  developed  her  thoughts  and  edu- 
cated her,  didn't  you? 

Adolph.  No,  she  stopped  growing  and  I  pushed  on. 
GusTAV.  Yes,  isn't  it  strange  that  her  "authoring"  seemed 
to  fall  off  after  her  first  book — or  that  it  failed  to  improve,  at 
least?  But  that  first  time  she  had  a  subject  which  wrote 
itself — for  I  understand  she  used  her  former  husband  for  a 
model.  You  never  knew  liim,  did  you?  They  say  he  was  an 
idiot. 

Adolph.  I  never  knew  him,  as  he  was  away  for  six  months 
at  a  time.  But  he  must  have  been  an  arch-idiot,  judging  by 
her  picture  of  him.  [Pause]  And  you  may  feel  sure  that  the 
picture  was  correct. 

GusTAV.  I  do! — But  why  did  she  ever  take  him? 
Adolph.  Because  she  didn't  know  him  well  enough.     Of 
course,  you  never  do  get  acquainted  until  afterward! 

GusTAV.  .:\nd  for  that  reason  one  ought  not  to  marry  until 
— afterward. — And  he  was  a  tyrant,  of  course? 
Adolph.  Of  course? 

GusTAV.  Why,  so  are  all  married  men.  [Feeling  his  way] 
And  you  not  the  least. 


12  CREDITORS 


Adolph.  I?    Who  let  my  wife  come  and  go  as  she  pleases 

GusTAV.  Well,  that's  nothing.  You  couldn't  lock  her  up. 
could  you?    But  do  you  like  her  to  stay  away  whole  nights? 

Adolpii.  No,  rrally,  I  don't. 

GusT.w.  There,  you  see!  [With  a  change  of  tactics]  And  to 
tell  the  truth,  it  would  only  make  you  ridiculous  to  like  it. 

Adolph.  Ridiculous?  Can  a  man  be  ridiculous  because  he 
trusts  his  wife? 

GusTAV.  Of  course  he  can.  .Viid  it's  just  what  you  arc 
already — and  thoroughly  at  that! 

Adolph.  [Coitnihicely]  I!  It's  what  I  dread  most  of  all — 
and  there's  going  to  Ik?  a  change. 

GusTAV.  Don't  get  excited  now — or  you'll  have  another 
attack. 

Adolph.  But  why  isn't  she  ridiculous  when  I  stay  out  all 
night? 

GrsTAV.  Yes,  why.'  Well,  it's  nothing  that  concerns  you, 
hut  that's  the  way  it  is.  And  while  you  arc  trying  to  figure  out 
why,  the  mishap  liius  already  occurred. 

Adolph.  What  mishap? 

GusTAV.  However,  the  first  husband  was  a  tyrant,  and  she 
took  him  only  to  get  her  freedom.  You  see,  a  girl  cannot  have 
freetlom  except  by  providing  herself  with  a  chaperon — or  w  hat 
wc  call  a  husbaufl. 

Adolph.  Of  course  not. 

GusT.w.  And  now  you  arc  the  chaperon. 

Adolph.  I? 

GusTAV.  Since  you  are  her  husband. 
Adolph  keeps  a  preoccupied  silence. 

Gdstav.  Am  I  not  right? 

Adolph.  [Uneasily]  I  don't  know.  You  live  with  a  woman 
for  years,  and  you  never  stop  to  analyse  her,  or  your  relation- 
ship with  her,  and  then — then  you  begin  to  think — and  there 


CREDITORS  13 

yon  are! — Giistav,  you  are  my  friend.  The  only  male  friend 
I  have.  During  this  last  week  you  have  given  me  courage 
to  hve  again.  It  is  as  if  your  own  magnetism  had  been  poured 
into  me.  Like  a  watchmaker,  you  have  fixed  the  works  in  my 
head  and  wound  up  the  spring  again.  Can't  you  hear,  your- 
self, how  I  think  more  clearly  and  speak  more  to  the  point  .^ 
And  to  myself  at  least  it  seems  as  if  my  voice  had  recovered 
its  ring. 

GusTAV.  So  it  seems  to  me  also.    And  why  is  that? 

Adolph.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you  grew  accustomed  to 
lower  your  voice  in  talking  to  women.  I  know  at  least  that 
Tekla  always  used  to  accuse  me  of  shouting. 

GusTAv.  And  so  you  toned  down  your  voice  and  accepted 
the  rule  of  the  slipper.'^ 

Adolph.  That  isn't  quite  the  way  to  put  it.  [After  some 
reflection]  I  think  it  is  even  worse  than  that.  But  let  us  talk 
of  something  else! — \Miat  was  I  saying.^ — Yes,  you  came  here, 
and  you  enabled  me  to  see  my  art  in  its  true  light.  Of  course, 
for  some  time  I  had  noticed  my  growing  lack  of  interest  in 
painting,  as  it  didn't  seem  to  offer  me  the  proper  medium 
for  the  expression  of  what  I  wanted  to  bring  out.  But  when 
you  explained  all  this  to  me,  and  made  it  clear  why  painting 
must  fail  as  a  timely  outlet  for  the  creative  instmct,  then  I 
saw  the  light  at  last — and  I  realised  that  hereafter  it  would 
not  be  possible  for  me  to  express  myself  by  means  of  colour 
only. 

GusTAV.  Are  you  quite  sure  now  that  you  cannot  go  on 
painting — that  you  may  not  have  a  relapse.'' 

Adolph.  Perfectly  sure!  For  I  have  tested  myself.  When 
I  went  to  bed  that  night  after  our  talk,  I  rehearsed  your  argu- 
ment point  by  point,  and  I  knew  you  had  it  right.  But  when 
I  woke  up  from  a  good  night's  sleep  and  my  head  was  clear 
again,  then  it  came  over  me  in  a  flash  that  you  might  be  mis- 


U  CREDITORS 

taken  after  all.  And  I  jumptnl  out  of  bed  and  got  hold  of  my 
Ijrushcs  and  paints — but  it  was  no  use!  Every  trace  of  illu- 
sion was  gone — it  was  nothing  but  smears  of  paint,  and  I 
(|uake<l  at  the  thought  of  having  believed,  and  having  made 
others  l>elicve,  that  a  paintetl  canvas  could  be  anything  but 
a  paintetl  canvas.  The  veil  ha<l  fallen  from  my  eyes,  and  it 
was  just  as  impossible  for  me  to  paint  any  more  as  it  was  to 
become  a  child  again. 

GisTAV.  And  then  you  saw  that  the  realistic  tenclency  of 
our  day,  its  craving  fur  actuality  an«l  tangibility,  cwuld  only 
6nd  its  proper  form  in  sculpture,  which  gives  you  body,  ex- 
tension in  all  three  dimensions 

Adolpii.  [\'a(jiu'ly\  The  thr«-<'  tlimensioiu — oh  yes,  Ixxly, 
in  a  won  11 

GusTAV.  And  then  you  Invame  a  sculptor  yourself.     Or 
rather,  ymi  have  Invn  one  all  your  life,  but  you  had  g< " 
a-stray,  ami  nothing  was  neo<le<l  but  a  guide  to  put  you  on  the 
ri^^lil  road— Tell   me,  do  you   exp«-riencv  supreme  joy  now 
when  you  are  at  work? 

Adolimi.  Now  I  am  living! 

GusTAv.  May  I  see  what  you  are  doing.' 

Adolimi.  a  female  figure. 

GusTAv.  Without  a  mo<lel?    .\nd  so  lifelike  at  that! 

AooLrn.  [.ipathcticalli/]  Yes,  but  it  resembles  somelxxly. 
It  is  reniarkaMe  that  this  woman  seems  to  have  betxime  a 
part  of  my  btnly  as  I  of  hers. 

GusTAV.  Well,  that's  not  so  very  remarkable.  Do  you 
know  what  transfusi«)n  is? 

Adolph.  Of  blooil?     Yes. 

GusTAV.  .Vnd  you  seem  to  have  bletl  yourself  a  little  t'  > 
much.  When  I  lcK)k  at  the  figure  here  I  comprehend  several 
things  which  I  merely  guessed  before.  You  have  loved  li-  r 
tremendously ! 


CREDITORS  15 

Adolph.  Yes,  to  such  an  extent  that  I  couldn't  tell  whether 
she  was  I  or  I  she.  When  she  is  smiling,  I  smile  also.  When 
she  is  weeping.  I  weep.  And  when  she — can  you  imagine 
anything  like  it? — when  she  was  giving  life  to  our  child — I 
felt  the  birth  pangs  within  myself. 

GusTAV.  Do  you  know,  my  dear  friend — I  hate  to  speak  of 

it,  but  you  are  already  showing  the  first  symptoms  of  epilepsy. 

Adolpii.  [Agitated]  I!     How  can  you  tell? 

GusTAV.  Because   I   have   watched    the   symptoms    in    a 

younger  brother  of  mine  who  had  been  worshipping  Venus 

a  little  too  excessively. 

Adolpii.  How — how  did  it  show  itself — that  thing  you 
spoke  of? 

[During  the  following  fassage  Gustav  speaks  vith  great 
animation,  and  Adolpii  listens  so  intently  that,  7in- 
consciously,  he  imitates  many  of  Gustav's  gestures. 
Gustav.  It  was  dreadful  to  witness,  and  if  you  don't  feel 
strong  enough  I  won't  inflict  a  description  of  it  on  you. 
Adolph.  [Nervously]  Yes,  go  right  on — just  go  on! 
Gustav.  Well,  the  boy  happened  to  marry  an  innocent 
little  creature  with  curls,  and  eyes  like  a  turtle-dove;  with 
the  face  of  a  child  and  the  pure  soul  of  an  angel.    But  never- 
theless she  managed  to  usurp  the  male  prerogative 

Adolph.  What  is  that? 

Gustav.  Initiative,  of  course.  And  with  the  result  that 
the  angel  nearly  carried  him  off  to  heaven.  But  first  he  had 
to  be  put  on  the  cross  and  made  to  feel  the  nails  in  his  flesh. 
It  was  horrible! 

Adolph.  [Breathlessly]  W'ell,  what  happened? 

Gustav.  [Lingering  on  each  trord]  We   might  be   sitting 

together  talking,  he  and  I — and  when  I  had  been  speaking  for 

a  while  his  face  would  turn  white  as  chalk,  his  arms  and  legs 

would  grow  stiff,  and  his  thumbs  became  twisted  against  the 


IG  CREDITORS 

palms  of  his  hands— like  this.  [lie  illustrates  the  morement  and 
it  is  imitated  by  Adolph]  Then  liis  eyes  became  blootlshot,  antl 
he  began  io  ( hew— hkc  this.  [lie  cheirs,  and  again  Adolph 
imitates  him]  The  saliva  was  rattling  in  his  throat.  Ilis  chesl 
was  squeezed  together  as  if  it  had  lK«en  closed  in  a  vice.  The 
pui)ils  of  his  eyes  flickeretl  like  gas-jets.  His  tongue  l>eat  the 
saliva  into  a  lather. and  he  sank — sU)wly — down— Imckward— 
into  the  chair — as  if  he  were  drowning.    Ami  then 

Adolph.  [In  a  uhisper]  Stop  now! 

GusTAV.  And  then—     Are  you  not  feeling  well.' 

Adoumi.  No. 

GcsTAV.  [dets  a  glass  of  water  for  him]  There:  drink  now. 
And  we'll  talk  of  something  else. 

Adolph.  [Feebly]  Thank  yon  I     Please  go  on! 

GusTAV.  Well — when  he  came  to  he  couldn't  remember 
anything  at  all.  He  had  simply  lost  consciousness.  Has  that 
ever  happ<'ncd  to  you? 

Adolph.  Yes,  I  have  had  attacks  of  vertigo  now  and  then, 
but  my  jihysician  says  it's  oidy  ana>mia. 

GusTAV.  Well,  that's  the  Inginning  of  it.  you  know.  But, 
l>elieve  me.  it  will  end  in  ci)iKpsy  if  you  don't  take  care  of 
yourself. 

Adolph.  What  can  I  <lo? 

GisTAV.  To  begin  with,  you  will  have  to  observe  complete 
abstinence. 

Adolph.  For  how  long? 

GusTAV.  For  half  a  year  at  least. 

Adolph.  I  cannot  do  it.  That  would  upset  our  marrieil 
life. 

GusTAV.  Good-bye  to  you  then! 

Adolph.  [Covers  up  the  icax  figure]  I  cannot  do  it! 

GusTAV.  Can  you  not  save  your  own  life? — But  tell  me, 


CREDITORS  17 

as  you  have  alreadj'  given  me  so  much  of  your  confidence — is 
there  no  other  canker,  no  secret  wound,  that  troubles  you? 
For  it  is  very  rare  to  find  only  one  cause  of  discord,  as  life  is 
so  full  of  variety  and  so  fruitful  in  chances  for  false  relation- 
ships. Is  there  not  a  corpse  in  your  cargo  that  you  are  trying 
to  hide  from  yourself? — For  instance,  you  said  a  minute  ago 
that  you  have  a  child  which  has  been  left  in  other  people's 
care.    Why  don't  you  keep  it  with  you? 

Adolph.  My  wife  doesn't  want  us  to  do  so. 

GusTAV.  And  her  reason?    Speak  up  now! 

Adolph.  Because,  when  it  was  about  three  years  old,  it 
began  to  look  like  liim,  her  former  husband. 

GusTAV.  Well?    Have  you  seen  her  former  husband? 

Adolph.  No,  never.  I  have  only  had  a  casual  glance  at 
a  very  poor  portrait  of  him,  and  then  I  couldn't  detect  the 
shghtest  resemblance. 

GusTAV.  Oh,  portraits  are  never  like  the  original,  and, 
besides,  he  might  have  changed  considerably  since  it  was 
made.  However,  I  hope  it  hasn't  aroused  any  suspicions  in 
you? 

Adolph.  Not  at  all.  The  child  was  born  a  year  after  our 
marriage,  and  the  husband  was  abroad  when  I  first  met 
Tekla — it  happened  right  here,  in  this  very  house  even,  and 
that's  why  we  come  here  every  summer. 

GusTAV.  No,  then  there  can  be  no  cause  for  suspicion. 
And  you  wouldn't  have  had  any  reason  to  trouble  yourself 
anyhow,  for  the  children  of  a  widow  who  marries  again  often 
show  a  likeness  to  her  dead  husband.  It  is  annoying,  of 
course,  and  that's  why  they  used  to  burn  all  widows  in 
India,  as  you  know. — But  tell  me:  have  you  ever  felt 
jealous  of  him — of  his  memory?  Would  it  not  sicken  you 
to  meet  him  on  a  walk  and  hear  him,  with  his  eyes  on 
your  Tekla,  use  the  word  "we"  instead  of  "I"?— We! 


18  CREDITORS 

Adolph.  I  cannot  deny  that  I  have  been  pursued  by  that 
very  thought. 

Gdstav.  There  now ! — And  you'll  never  get  rid  of  it.  There 
are  discords  in  this  life  which  can  never  be  reducetl  to  harmony. 
For  this  reason  you  had  better  put  wax  in  your  ears  and  go  to 
work.  If  you  work,  ami  grow  oM,  and  pile  masses  of  new  im- 
pressions on  the  hatches,  then  the  corpse  will  stay  (juict  in  the 
hold. 

Adoij'II.  Pardon  me  for  interrupting  you,  but — it  is  won- 
derful how  you  res«'mble  T«'kla  now  and  then  while  you  are 
talking.  Vou  hav«'  a  way  of  blinking  one  eye  as  if  you  were 
taking  aim  with  a  gun,  an<l  your  eyes  have  the  same  influence 
on  me  as  hers  have  at  times. 

GusT.w.  No,  n-ully? 

Adoi.pu.  .\nd  n«)w  you  said  that  "no,  really"  in  the  same 
indifTcrnit  way  that  she  <lo«'s.  She  al.so  has  th«'  habit  of  say- 
ing "no,  really"  <|iiite  often. 

GusT.w.  Perhaps  we  arc  distantly  relatenl,  .seeing  that  all 
human  beings  are  .sai«l  to  Ix*  of  one  family.  .\t  any  rate,  it 
will  be  interesting  to  make  your  wife's  acquaintance  to  see  if 
what  you  .say  is  true. 

Adolhh.  And  do  you  know,  .she  never  takc^  an  expression 
from  me.  She  .seems  rather  to  avoid  my  vocabulary,  and 
I  have  never  caught  her  using  any  of  my  gestures.  .\nd 
yet  people  as  a  rule  develop  what  is  called  "marital  resem- 
blance." 

GrsTAV.  .Vnd  do  you  know  why  this  has  not  happi-ned  in 
your  case? — That  woman  has  never  h)ved  you. 

Adom'H.  What  do  you  mean.' 

GusTAV.  I  ho|K'  you  will  excu.se  what  I  am  .saying — but 
woman's  love  consists  in  taking,  in  rtx-eiving,  an«l  one  from 
whom  she  takes  nothing  does  not  have  her  love.  She  has 
never  loved  you! 


CREDITORS  19 


Adolph.  Don't  you  think  her  capable  of  loving  more  than 


once? 


GusTAV.  No,  for  we  cannot  be  deceived  more  than  once. 
Then  our  eyes  are  opened  once  for  all.  You  have  never  been 
deceived,  and  so  j'ou  had  better  beware  of  those  that  have. 
They  are  dangerous,  I  tell  you. 

Adolph.  Your  words  pierce  me  like  knife  thrusts,  and  I 
feel  as  if  something  were  being  severed  within  me,  but  I 
cannot  help  it.  And  this  cutting  brings  a  certain  relief,  too. 
For  it  means  the  pricking  of  ulcers  that  never  seemed  to  ripen. 
— She  has  never  loved  me! — Why,  then,  did  she  ever  take 
me? 

GusTAV.  Tell  me  first  how  she  came  to  take  you,  and 
wliether  it  was  you  who  took  her  or  she  who  took  you? 

Adolph.  Heaven  only  knows  if  I  can  tell  at  all! — How  did 
it  happen?    Well,  it  didn't  come  about  in  one  day. 

GusTAV.  Would  you  like  to  have  me  tell  you  how  it  did 
happen? 

Adolph.  That's  more  than  you  can  do. 

GusTAV.  Oh,  by  using  the  information  about  yourself  and 
your  wife  that  you  have  given  me,  I  think  I  can  reconstruct 
the  whole  event.  Listen  now,  and  you'll  hear.  [In  a  dispas- 
sionate tone,  almost  humorously]  The  husband  had  gone  abroad 
to  study,  and  she  was  alone.  At  first  her  freedom  seemed 
rather  pleasant.  Then  came  a  sense  of  vacancy,  for  I  pre- 
sume she  was  pretty  empty  when  she  had  lived  by  herself 
for  a  fortnight.  Then  he  appeared,  and  by  and  by  the 
vacancy  was  filled  up.  By  comparison  the  absent  one 
seemed  to  fade  out,  and  for  the  simple  reason  that  he  was  at 
a  distance — you  know  the  law  about  the  square  of  the  dis- 
tance? But  when  they  felt  their  passions  stirring,  then  came 
fear — of  themselves,  of  their  consciences,  of  him.  For  protec- 
tion they  played  brother  and  sister.      And  the  more  their 


20  CREDITORS 

feelings  smacketl  of  the  fle-sli.  the  more  they  tried  to  make 
their  relationship  appear  spiritual. 

Adolph.  Brother  and  sister?    How  could  you  know  that? 

GusTAV.  I  guessed  it.  Children  are  in  the  hahit  of  playing 
papa  and  mamma,  but  when  they  grow  up  tluy  play  brother 
and  sister — in  order  to  hide  what  should  Ik*  hi<l<lenl — .Vnil  then 
they  took  the  vow  of  ehaistity — and  then  they  playctl  hide- 
and-seek — until  they  got  in  a  dark  comer  where  they  were 
sure  of  not  being  seen  by  anylxxly.  [H'Uh  mocl:  scrrrity] 
But  they  felt  that  there  was  one  whose  eye  reache<l  them  in 
the  darkness — an«l  they  grew  frightened — and  their  fright 
raised  the  spectre  of  the  absent  one — liLs  figure  lH>gan  to 
a.ssume  immense  proixirtions — it  Invame  nietamoriihosed : 
turned  into  a  nightmare  that  jlisturlnxl  their  amorous  slum- 
bers; a  creditor  who  knocke<l  at  all  doors.  Then  they  saw 
his  black  hand  betwivn  their  own  as  these  sncaketl  towani 
each  other  across  the  tal)le;  and  they  heanl  h'm  grating 
voice  through  that  stillness  of  the  night  that  should  have 
been  broken  only  by  the  l>cating  i»f  their  own  pulses.  lie 
did  not  prevent  them  from  |)OsseHsing  each  otlier  but  he 
spoiled  their  happiness.  And  when  they  Ixvame  awarr  of 
his  invisii)le  interference  with  their  happinens;  when  they 
took  flight  at  hust — a  vain  flight  from  the  memories  that  pur- 
sued them,  from  the  liability  they  had  left  l>ehind.  from  the 
public  opinion  they  could  not  fan* — and  when  they  found 
themselves  without  the  strength  nee<h-<l  to  carry  their  own 
guilt,  then  they  ha<l  to  send  out  into  the  fields  ft>r  a  .scaix-gtMit 
to  be  sacrificed.  They  were  free-thinkers,  but  they  did  not 
have  the  courage  to  step  forward  and  speak  openly  to  him  the 
words:  "We  love  each  other!"  To  sum  it  up.  they  were  cow- 
ards, and  so  the  tyrant  had  to  be  slaughtertHl.     Is  that  right? 

Adolpii.  Yes,  but  you  forget  that  she  etlucated  me,  that 
she  filletl  uiy  head  with  new  thoughts 


CREDITORS  21 

GusTAV.  I  have  not  forgotten  it.  But  tell  me:  why  coultl 
she  not  educate  the  other  man  also — into  a  free-thinker? 

Adolph.  Oh,  he  was  an  idiot! 

GusTAV.  Oh,  of  course — he  was  an  idiot!  But  that's 
rather  an  ambiguous  term,  and,  as  pictured  in  licr  novel,  his 
idiocy  seems  mainly  to  have  consisted  in  failure  to  understand 
her.  Pardon  me  a  question :  hut  is  your  wife  so  very  profound 
after  all?    I  have  discovered  nothing  profound  in  her  writings, 

Adolpii.  Neither  have  I. — But  then  I  have  also  to  confess 
a  certain  difficulty  in  understanding  her.  It  is  as  if  the  cogs 
of  our  brain  wheels  didn't  fit  into  each  other,  and  as  if  some- 
thing went  to  pieces  in  my  head  when  I  try  to  comprehend  her. 

GusTAV.  Maybe  you  are  an  idiot,  too? 

Adolph.  I  don't  think  so!  And  it  seems  to  me  all  the  time 
as  if  she  were  in  the  wrong —  Would  you  care  to  read  this 
letter,  for  instance,  which  I  got  to-day? 

[Takes  out  a  letter  from  his  pocket-hook. 

GusTAV.  [Glancing  through  tfie  letter]  Hm!  The  handwrit- 
ing seems  strangely  familiar. 

Adolph.  Rather  masculine,  don't  you  think? 

GusTAV.  Well,  I  know  at  least  one  man  who  writes  that 
kind  of  hand —  She  addresses  you  as  "brother."  Are  you 
still  playing  comedy  to  each  otlier?  And  do  you  never  permit 
yourselves  any  greater  familiarity  in  speaking  to  each  other? 

Adolph.  No,  it  seems  to  me  that  all  mutual  respect  is  lost 
in  that  way. 

GusTAV.  And  is  it  to  make  you  respect  her  that  she  calls 
herself  your  sister? 

Adolph.  I  want  to  respect  her  more  than  myself.  I  want 
her  to  be  the  better  part  of  my  own  self. 

GusTAV.  Why  don't  you  be  that  better  part  yourself? 
Would  it  be  less  convenient  than  to  permit  somebody  else  to 


22  CREDITORS 

fill  the  part?    Do  you  want  to  place  yourself  l>eneath  your 

wife? 

Adolph.  Yes,  I  do.  I  take  a  pleasure  in  never  quite  reach- 
ing up  to  her.  I  have  taught  her  to  swim,  for  example,  and 
now  I  enjoy  hearing  her  lx)ast  that  she  surpasses  nie  Inith  in 
skill  and  daring.  To  begin  with,  I  merely  pretendeil  to  Im? 
awkward  and  timid  in  order  to  raise  her  courage.  And  so  it 
ended  with  my  actually  l)eing  her  inferior,  more  of  a  c«wanl 
than  she.  It  almost  seemed  to  me  as  if  she  had  actually  taken 
my  courage  away  from  me. 

GusTAV.  Have  j'ou  taught  her  anything  else.' 

Adolpii.  Yes — but  it  must  stay  In-tween  ua — I  have 
taught  her  how  to  spell,  which  she  didn't  know  iH'fore.  IJut 
now,  listen:  when  she  took  charge  «>f  our  domestic  corresix)n- 
denoe,  I  grew  out  of  the  habit  «)f  writing.  And  think  «if  it: 
as  the  years  passetl  on,  lack  of  practice  made  me  forget  a  little 
here  and  there  of  my  gramnuir.  Hut  d«j  you  think  she  rwalls 
that  I  was  the  one  who  taught  her  at  the  start?  No — and  so 
I  am  "the  idiot,"  of  course. 

GusTAV.  So  you  arc  an  idiot  already? 

Adolph.  Oh,  it's  just  a  joke,  of  course! 

GusTAV.  Of  course!  Hut  this  Ls  clear  cannibalism,  I  think. 
/  Do  you  know  what's  In-hind  that  .sort  of  prm-tic**?  The 
j  savages  eat  their  enemies  in  order  to  ac(|uirc  their  useful 
\  qualities.  And  this  woman  has  l)cen  eating  your  .soul,  your 
.      courage,  your  knowknlge 

Adolpii.  And  my  faith!  It  was  I  who  urginl  her  to  write 
her  first  book 

GusTAV.  [Mahingafarc]  Oh-h-h! 

Adolph.  It  was  I  who  praised  her,  even  when  I  found  her 
stufT  rather  poor.  It  was  I  who  brought  her  into  literary  cir- 
cles where  she  could  gather  honey  from  our  most  ornamental 
literary  flowers.     It  was  I  who  use<l  my  i>er.sonal  influence 


CREDITORS  23 

to  keep  the  critics  from  her  throat.  It  was  I  who  blew  her 
faith  in  herself  into  flame;  blew  on  it  until  I  lost  my  own 
breath.  I  gave,  gave,  gave — until  I  had  nothing  left  for  my- 
self. Do  you  know — I'll  tell  you  everything  now — do  you 
know  I  really  believe — and  the  human  soul  is  so  peculiarly 
constituted — I  believe  that  when  my  artistic  successes  seemed 
about  to  put  her  in  the  shadow — as  well  as  her  reputation — 
then  I  tried  to  put  courage  into  her  by  belittling  myself,  and 
by  making  my  own  art  seem  inferior  to  hers.  I  talked  so  long 
about  the  insignificant  part  played  by  painting  on  the  whole — 
talked  so  long  about  it,  and  invented  so  many  reasons  to  prove 
what  I  said,  that  one  fine  day  I  found  myself  convinced  of  its 
futility.  So  all  you  had  to  do  was  to  breathe  on  a  house  of 
cards. 

GuSTAV.  Pardon  me  for  recalling  what  you  said  at  the  be- 
ginning of  our  talk — that  she  had  never  taken  anything  from 
you. 

Adolph.  She  doesn't  nowadays.  Because  there  is  nothing 
more  to  take. 

GusTAV.  The  snake  being  full,  it  vomits  now. 

Adolph.  Perhaps  she  has  been  taking  a  good  deal  more 
from  me  than  I  have  been  aware  of  .^ 

GusTAV.  You  can  be  sure  of  that.  She  took  when  you  were 
not  looking,  and  that  is  called  theft. 

Adolph.  Perhaps  she  never  did  educate  me? 

GusTAV.  But  you  her?  In  all  likelihood!  But  it  was  her 
trick  to  make  it  appear  the  other  way  to  you.  May  I  ask  how 
she  set  about  educating  you? 

Adolph.  Oh,  first  of  all — hm! 

GuSTAV.  Well? 

Adolph.  Well,  I 

GusTAV.  No,  we  were  speaking  of  her. 

Adolph.  Really,  I  cannot  tell  now. 


24  CREDITORS 

GusTAV.  Do  you  see! 

Adolph.  However — she  devoured  my  faith  also,  and  so  I 
sank  further  and  further  down,  until  you  came  along  and 
gave  me  a  new  faith. 

GusTAV.  [Smiling]  In  sculpture? 

Adolph.  [Doubtfully]  Yes. 

GusTAV.  And  have  you  really  faith  in  it.^  In  this  ab- 
stract, antiquated  art  that  dates  back  to  the  childhood  of 
civilisation.'  Do  you  believe  that  you  can  obtain  your  effect 
by  pure  form — by  the  tlirce  dimensions — tell  me.'  That  you 
can  reach  the  practical  mind  of  our  own  day,  and  convey  an 
illusion  to  it,  without  the  use  of  colour — without  colour,  mind 
you — do  you  really  believe  that? 

Adolph.  [Crushed]  No! 

GusTAV.  Well,  I  don't  either. 

Adolph.  Why,  then,  did  you  say  you  did? 

GusTAV.  Because  I  pitic<l  you. 

Adolph.  Yes,  I  am  to  be  pitied!  For  now  I  am  banknij)t! 
Finished! — And  worst  of  all:  not  even  she  is  left  to  me! 

GusT.iv.  Well,  what  could  you  do  with  her? 

Adolph.  Oh,  she  would  be  to  me  what  God  was  before  I 
became  an  atheist:  an  object  that  might  help  me  to  exercise 
my  sense  of  veneration. 

GusTAV.  Bury  your  sense  of  veneration  and  let  something 
else  grow  on  top  of  it.    A  little  wholesome  scorn,  for  instance. 

Adolph.  I  cannot  live  without  having  something  to  re- 
spect  

GusTAV.  Slave! 

Adolph.  — without  a  woman  to  respect  and  worship! 

GusTAV.  Oh,  Hell!  Then  you  had  better  take  back  your 
God — if  you  needs  must  have  something  to  kow-tow  tt)! 
You're  a  fine  atheist,  with  all  that  superstition  about  woman 
still  in  you!     You're  a  fine  free-thinker,  who  dare  not  think 


CREDITORS  25 

freely  about  the  dear  ladies !  Do  you  know  what  that  incom- 
prehensible, sphinx-like,  profound  something  in  your  wife 
really  is?  It  is  sheer  stupidity! — Look  here:  she  cannot 
even  distinguish  between  th  and  t.  And  that,  you  know, 
means  there  is  something  wrong  with  the  mechanism.  When 
you  look  at  the  case,  it  looks  like  a  chronometer,  but  the  works 
inside  are  those  of  an  ordinary'  cheap  watch. — Nothing  but  the 
skirts — that's  all!  Put  trousers  on  her,  give  her  a  pair  of 
moustaches  of  soot  under  her  nose,  then  take  a  good,  sober 
look  at  her,  and  listen  to  her  in  the  same  manner:  you'll  find 
the  instrument  has  another  sound  to  it.  A  phonograph,  and 
nothing  else — giving  you  back  your  own  words,  or  those  of 
other  people — and  always  in  diluted  form.  Have  you  ever 
looked  at  a  naked  woman — oh  yes,  yes,  of  course!  A  youth 
with  over-developed  breasts;  an  under-developed  man;  a 
child  that  has  shot  up  to  full  height  and  then  stopped  grow- 
ing in  other  respects;  one  who  is  chronically  anaemic:  what 
can  you  expect  of  such  a  creature.'* 

Adolph.  Supposing  all  that  to  be  true — how  can  it  be 
possible  that  I  still  think  her  my  equal  .^ 

GusTAV.  Hallucination — the  hypnotising  power  of  skirts! 
Or — the  two  of  you  may  actually  have  become  equals.  The 
levelling  process  has  been  finished.  Her  capillarity  has  brought 
the  water  in  both  tubes  to  the  same  height. — Tell  me  [taking 
out  his  watch] :  our  talk  has  now  lasted  six  hoiu-s,  and  your 
wife  ought  soon  to  be  here.  Don't  you  think  we  had  better 
stop,  so  that  you  can  get  a  rest.' 

Adolph.  No,  don't  leave  me!    I  don't  dare  to  be  alone! 

GusTAV.  Oh,  for  a  little  while  only — and  then  the  lady  will 
come. 

Adolph.  Yes,  she  is  coming! — It's  all  so  queer!  I  long  for 
her,  but  I  am  afraid  of  her.  She  pets  me,  she  is  tender  to  me, 
but  there  is  suffocation  in  her  kisses — something  that  pulls 


/ 


/ 


26  CREDITORS 

and  numbs.  And  I  feci  like  a  circus  cliild  that  is  being  pinrhe<l 
by  the  chvm  in  order  that  it  may  look  rosy-checked  when 
it  appears  before  the  public. 

GusTAV.  I  feel  very  sorry  for  you,  my  friend.  Witliout 
being  a  physician,  I  can  tell  that  you  arc  a  dying  man.  It  i-s 
enough  to  look  at  your  latest  pictures  in  order  to  see  that. 

Adolph.  You  think  so?    How  can  you  see  it.' 

GusTAV.  Your  colour  is  watery  blue,  anaemic,  thin,  so  that 
the  cadaverous  yellow  of  the  canvas  shines  through.  And  it 
impresses  me  as  if  you/  own  hollow,  putty-coloured  chevks 
were  showing  beneath 

Adolph.  Oh,  stop,  stop! 

GusTAV.  "Well,  this  is  not  only  my  personal  opinion.  Have 
you  read  to-day's  paper? 

Adolph.  [Shrinlciny]  No! 

GusTAV.  It's  on  the  table  here. 

Adolph.  [Reaching  for  the  paper  iciihout  daring  to  take  Jiold 
of  ii]  Do  they  speak  of  it  there? 

GusTAV.  Read  it — or  do  you  want  me  to  read  it  to  you? 

Adolph.  No! 

GusTAv.  I'll  leave  you,  if  you  want  mc  to. 

Adolph.  No,  no,  no! — I  don't  know — it  seems  as  if  I  were 
beginning  to  hate  you,  and  yet  I  cannot  let  you  go. — You  «lrag 
me  out  of  the  hole  into  which  I  have  fallen,  but  no  sooner  <lo 
you  get  me  on  firm  ice,  than  you  knock  me  on  the  head  and 
shove  me  into  the  water  again.  As  long  as  my  secrets  were  my 
own,  I  had  still  something  left  within  me,  but  now  I  am  quite 
empty.  There  is  a  canvas  by  an  Italian  master,  showing  a 
scene  of  torture — a  saint  whose  intestines  are  being  torn  out 
of  him  and  rolled  on  the  axle  of  a  windlass.  The  martyr  is 
watching  himself  grow  thinner  and  thinner,  while  the  roll 
on  the  axle  grows  thicker. — Now  it  seems  to  mc  as  if  you 
had  swelled  out  since  you  began  to  dig  in  mc;  and  when  you 


CREDITORS  27 

leave,  you'll  carry  away  my  vitals  with  you,  and  leave  nothing 
but  an  empty  shell  behind. 

GusTAV.  How  you  do  let  your  fancy  run  away  with  you! — 
And  besides,  your  wife  is  bringing  back  your  heart. 

Adolph.  No,  not  since  you  have  burned  her  to  ashes. 
Everything  is  in  ashes  where  you  have  passed  along :  my  art, 
my  love,  my  hope,  my  faith! 

GusTAV,  All  of  it  was  prettj^  nearly  finished  before  I  came 
along. 

Adolph.  Yes,  but  it  might  have  been  saved.  Now  it's 
too  late — incendiary! 

GusTAV.  We  have  cleared  some  ground  only.  Now  we'll 
sow  in  the  ashes. 

Adolph.  I  hate  you !     I  curse  you ! 

GusTAV.  Good  symptoms!  There  is  still  some  strength  left 
in  you.  And  now  I'll  pull  you  up  on  the  ice  again.  Listen 
now!  Do  you  want  to  listen  to  me,  and  do  you  want  to  obey 
me? 

Adolph.  Do  with  me  what  you  will — I'll  obey  you! 

GusTAv.  [Rising]  Look  at  me! 

Adolph.  [Looking  at  Gustav]  Now  you  are  looking  at  me 
again  with  that  other  pair  of  eyes  which  attracts  me. 

GusTAV.  And  listen  to  me! 

Adolph.  Yes,  but  speak  of  j'ourself.  Don't  talk  of  me  any 
longer:  I  am  like  an  open  wound  and  cannot  bear  being 
touched. 

GusTAV.  No,  there  is  nothing  to  say  about  me.  I  am  a 
teacher  of  dead  languages,  and  a  widower — that's  all!  Take 
my  hand. 

Adolph.  What  terrible  power  there  must  be  in  you!  It 
feels  as  if  I  were  touching  an  electrical  generator. 

GusTAV.  And  bear  in  mind  that  I  have  been  as  weak  as  you 
are  now. — Stand  up! 


J 


! 


28  CREDITORS 

Adolph.  [Rises,  but  keeps  Jiimself  from  falling  only  by  throw- 
ing his  arms  around  tlie  neck  of  Gustav]  I  am  like  a  boneless 
baby,  and  my  brain  seems  to  lie  bare. 

Gustav,  Take  a  turn  across  the  floor! 

Adolph.  I  cannot ! 

Gustav.  Do  what  I  say,  or  Dl  strike  you! 

Adolph.  [Straightening  himself  vp]  What  are  you  saying.' 

Gustav.  I'll  strike  you,  I  said. 

Adolph.  [Leaping  backward  in  a  rage]  You! 

Gustav.  That's  it!  Now  you  have  got  the  blood  into 
your  head,  and  your  self-assurance  is  awake.  And  now  I'll 
give  you  some  electriticy:  where  is  your  wife.' 

Adolph.  ^^1lcre  is  she.' 

Gustav.  Yes. 

Adolph.  She  is — at — a  meeting. 

Gustav.  Sure? 

Adolph.  Absolutely! 

Gustav.  What  kind  of  meeting? 

Adolph.  Oh,  something  relating  to  an  orphan  asylum. 

Gustav.  Did  you  part  as  friends? 

Adolph,  [With  some  hesitation]  Not  as  friends. 

Gustav.  As  enemies  then! — What  did  you  say  that  pro- 
voked her? 

Adolph.  You  are  terrible.  I  am  afraid  of  you.  How  could 
you  know? 

Gustav.  It's  very  simple:  I  possess  three  known  factors, 
and  with  their  help  I  figure  out  the  unknown  one.  What  did 
you  say  to  her? 

Adolph.  I  said — two  words  only,  l>ut  they  were  dreadful, 
and  I  regret  them — regret  them  very  much, 

Gustav.  Don't  do  it!    Tell  me  now? 

Adolph.  I  said:  "Old  flirt!" 

Gustav.  What  more  did  you  say? 


CREDITORS  29 

Adolph.  Nothing  at  all. 

GusTAV.  Yes,  you  did,  but  you  have  forgotten  it— perhaps 
because  you  don't  dare  remember  it.  You  have  put  it  away 
in  a  secret  drawer,  but  you  have  got  to  open  it  now! 

Adolph.  I  can't  remember! 

GusTAV.  But  I  know.  This  is  what  you  said :  "You  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  flirting  when  you  are  too  old  to  have  any 
more  lovers!" 

Adolph.  Did  I  say  that.''  I  must  have  said  it!— But  how 
can  you  know  that  I  did.-* 

GusTAV.  I  heard  her  tell  the  story  on  board  the  boat  as  I 
came  here, 

Adolph.  To  whom.? 

GusTAv.  To  fom-  young  men  who  formed  her  company. 
She  is  already  developing  a  taste  for  chaste  yoimg  men,  just 
like 

Adolph.  But  there  is  nothing  wrong  in  that.'* 

GusTAV.  No  more  than  in  playing  brother  and  sister  when 
you  are  papa  and  mamma. 

Adolph.  So  you  have  seen  her  then.'* 

GusTAV.  Yes,  I  have.  But  you  have  never  seen  her  when 
you  didn't — I  mean,  when  you  were  not  present.  And  there's 
the  reason,  you  see,  why  a  husband  can  never  really  know  his 
wife.    Have  you  a  portrait  of  her.'' 

Adolph  takes  a  photograph  from  his  pocketbook.    There 
is  a  look  of  aroused  curiosity  on  his  face. 

GusTAV.  You  were  not  present  when  this  was  taken.'' 

Adolph.  No. 

GusTAV.  Look  at  it.  Does  it  bear  much  resemblance  to  the 
portrait  you  painted  of  her?  Hardly  any!  The  features  are 
the  same,  but  the  expression  is  quite  different.  But  you  don't 
see  this,  because  your  own  picture  of  her  creeps  in  between 
your  eyes  and  this  one.    Look  at  it  now  as  a  painter,  without 


30  CREDITORS 

giving  a  thought  to  the  original.  What  docs  it  represent? 
Nothing,  so  far  as  I  can  see,  but  an  affected  coquette  inviting 
somebody  to  come  and  play  with  her.  Do  you  notice  this 
CATiical  line  around  the  mouth  which  you  are  never  allowed 
to  see.'  Can  you  see  that  her  eyes  are  seeking  out  some  man 
who  is  not  you.'  Do  you  observe  that  her  dress  is  cut  low  at 
the  neck,  that  her  hair  is  done  up  in  a  different  way,  that  her 
sleeve  has  managed  to  slip  back  from  her  arm.^    Can  you  sec? 

Adolph.  Yes — now  J  see. 

GusTAV.  Look  out,  my  boy! 

Adolph.  For  what? 

GusTAV.  For  her  revenge!  Bear  in  mind  that  when  you 
said  she  could  not  attract  a  man,  you  struck  at  what  to  her 
is  most  sacred — the  one  thing  al>ove  all  others.  If  you  had 
told  her  that  she  wrote  nothing  but  nonsense,  she  would 
have  laughed  at  your  poor  taste.  But  as  it  is — believe  me,  it 
will  not  be  her  fault  if  her  desire  for  revenge  has  not  already 
been  satisfied. 

Adolph.  I  must  know  if  it  is  so! 

GusTAV.  Find  out! 

Adolph.  Find  out? 

GusTAv.  Watch —    I'll  assist  you,  if  you  want  me  to. 

Adolph.  As  I  am  to  die  anyhow — it  may  as  well  come  first 
as  last!   ^Miat  ami  todo? 

GusTAV.  First  of  all  a  piece  of  information:  has  your  wife 
any  vulnerable  pouit? 

Adolph.  Hardly!  I  think  she  must  have  nine  lives,  like 
a  cat. 

GusTAV.  There — that  was  the  boat  whisthng  at  the  landing 
— now  she'll  soon  be  here. 

Adolph.  Then  I  must  go  down  and  meet  her. 

GusTAV.  No,  you  are  to  stay  here.    You  have  to  be  im- 


CREDITORS  31 

polite.    If  her  conscience  is  clear,  you'll  catch  it  until  your 
ears  tingle.    If  she  is  guilty,  she'll  come  up  and  pet  you. 

Adolph.  Are  you  so  sure  of  that.' 

GusTAV.  Not  quite,  because  a  rabbit  will  sometimes  turn 
and  run  in  loops,  but  I'll  follow.  My  room  is  next  to  this. 
[He  paints  to  the  door  on  the  right}  There  I  shall  take  up  my 
position  and  watch  you  while  you  are  plaj'ing  the  game  in 
here.  But  when  you  are  done,  we'll  change  parts:  I'll  enter 
the  cage  and  do  tricks  with  the  snake  while  you  stick  to  the 
key-hole.  Then  we  meet  in  the  park  to  compare  notes.  But 
keep  your  back  stiff.  And  if  j'ou  feel  yourself  weakening, 
knock  twice  on  the  floor  with  a  chair. 

Adolph.  All  right! — But  don't  go  away.  I  must  be  sure 
that  you  are  in  the  next  room. 

GusTAV.  You  can  be  quite  sure  of  that.  But  don't  get 
scared  afterward,  when  you  watch  me  dissecting  a  human 
soul  and  laying  out  its  various  parts  on  the  table.  They  say 
it  is  rather  hard  on  a  beginner,  but  once  you  have  seen  it 
done,  you  never  want  to  miss  it. — And  be  sure  to  remember 
one  thing :  not  a  word  about  having  met  me,  or  ha\'ing  made 
any  new  acquaintance  whatever  while  she  was  away.  Not 
one  word!  And  I'll  discover  her  weak  point  by  mj^self.  Hush, 
she  has  arrived — she  is  in  her  room  now.  She's  humming  to 
herself.  That  means  she  is  in  a  rage! — Now,  straight  in  the 
back,  please!  And  sit  do^\Ti  on  that  chair  over  there,  so  that 
she  has  to  sit  here — then  I  can  watch  both  of  you  at  the  same 
time. 

Adolph.  It's  only  fifteen  minutes  to  dinner — and  no  new 
guests  have  arrived — for  I  haven't  heard  the  bell  ring.  That 
means  we  shall  be  by  ourselves — worse  luck! 

GusTAV.  Are  you  weak? 

Adolph.  I  am  nothing  at  all ! — Yes,  I  am  afraid  of  what  is 
now  coming!    But  I  cannot  keep  it  from  coming!    The  stone 


32  CREDITORS 

has  been  set  rolling — and  it  was  not  the  first  drop  of  water 
that  started  it — nor  was  it  the  last  one — but  all  of  them  to- 
gether. 

GusTAV.  Let  it  roll  then — for  peace  will  come  in  no  other 
way.    Good-bye  for  a  while  now!  [Goc^  ou/J 

Adolpii  nods  bade  at  him.    Until  then  he  has  been  stand- 
ing v'ith  the  photograph  in  his  hand.    Xoic  he  tears  it 
vp  and  flings  the  pieees  under  the  table.     Then  he  sits 
doien  on  a  chair,  pulls  Jierrou.dti  at  his  tie,  runs  his 
fingers  through  his  hair,  crumples  his  coat  lapel,  and 
so  on. 
Tekla.  [Kntcrs,  goes  straight  up  to  him  and  gires  him  a  hi.ss: 
her  manner  is  friendly,  frank,  happy,  and  engaging]  Hello, 
little  brother!    How  is  he  getting  on? 

Adolpii.  [.Almost  won  over;  speaking  reluctantly  and  as  if 
in  jest]  What  mischief  have  you  Ihvh  up  to  now  tliat  makes 
you  come  antl  kiss  me.' 

Tekl.\.  I'll  tell  you:  I've  spent  an  awful  lot  of  money. 

Adolpii.  You  have  had  a  gtxxl  time  then.' 

Tekla.  Very!  But  not  exactly  at  that  cr^he  meeting. 
That  was  plain  pifTlc.  to  tell  the  truth.— But  what  has  little 
brother  found  to  divert  himsdf  with  while  his  Pussy  was 
away.'' 

Iler  eyes  wander  around  the  room  as  if  she  were  looking 
for  somebody  or  snijpng  something. 
Adolpii.  I've  simply  been  bort*!!. 
TekLu\.  And  no  company  at  all.' 
Adolpii.  Quite  by  myself. 

Tekl.\.  [Watching  him;  she  sits  down  on  the  sofa]  \\'ho  has 
been  sitting  here.' 

Adolph.  Over  there?     Nobtxly. 

Tekl.\.  That's  funny!    The  seat  is  still  warm,  and  there  is 


CREDITORS  33 

a  hollow  here  that  looks  as  if  it  had  been  made  by  an  elbow. 
Have  you  had  lady  callers? 

Adolph.  I?     You  don't  believe  it,  do  you? 
Tekla.    But  you  blush.    I  think  little  brother  is  not  telling 
the  truth.    Come  and  tell  Pussy  now  what  he  has  on  his  con- 
science. 

Draws  him  toward  herself  so  that  he  sinks  down  with  his 
head  resting  in  her  lap. 
Adolph.  You're  a  little  devil — do  you  know  that? 
Tekla.  No,  I  don't  know  anything  at  all  about  myself. 
Adolph.  You  never  think  about  yourself,  do  you? 
Tekl,\.  [Sniffing  and  taking  notes]  I  think  of  nothing  but 
myself— I  am  a  dreadful  egoist.    But  what  has  made  you  turn 
so  philosophical  all  at  once? 

Adolph.  Put  your  hand  on  my  forehead. 
Tekla.  [Prattling  as  if  to  a  baby]  Has  he  got  ants  m  his 
head  again?    Does  he  want  me  to  take  them  away,  does  he? 
[Kisses  him  on  the  forehead]  There  now!    Is  it  all  right  now? 
Adolph.  Now  it's  all  right.  [Pause] 

Tekla.  Well,  tell  me  now  what  you  have  been  doing  to 
make  the  time  go?    Have  you  painted  anything? 
Adolph.  No,  I  am  done  with  pamting. 
Tekla.  WTiat?     Done  with  painting? 
Adolph.  Yes,  but  don't  scold  me  for  it.    How  can  I  help 
it  that  I  can't  pamt  any  longer! 

Tekla.  What  do  you  mean  to  do  then? 
Adolph.  I'll  become  a  sculptor. 
Tekla.  WTiat  a  lot  of  brand  new  ideas  again ! 
Adolph.  Yes,  but  please  don't  scold!    Look  at  that  figure 
over  there. 

Tekla.  [Uncovering  the  wax  figure]  Well,  I  declare! — 'Who 
is  that  meant  for? 
Adolph.  Guess! 


34  CREDITORS 

Tekla.  Is  it  Pussy?    lias  he  got  no  shame  at  all? 

Adolph.  Is  it  like? 

Tekl-'V.  How  can  I  tell  when  there  is  no  face? 

Adolph.  Yes,  but  there  is  so  much  else — that's  Ix'autiful! 

Teki^.  [Taps  him  plai/fully  on  ilie  cheek]  Now  be  must 
keep  still  or  I'll  have  to  kiss  Ijim. 

Adolph.  [Holding  her  bach]  Now,  now! — Somelxxly  might 
come! 

Tp:kla.  Will,  what  do  I  care?  Can't  I  kiss  my  own  hus- 
band, perhaps?    Oh  yes,  that's  my  lawful  right. 

Adolph.  Yes,  but  don't  you  know — in  the  hotel  here,  they 
don't  believe  we  are  marrii-*!.  Ufause  we  an*  kis.sing  each  other 
such  a  lot.  And  it  makes  no  diflerencc  that  we  quarrel  now 
and  then,  for  lovers  are  said  to  do  that  also. 

Tekl.\.  AVcli.  but  what's  the  use  of  quarrelling?  Why 
can't  he  always  be  as  nice  as  he  Ls  now?  Tell  me  now?  Can't 
he  try?    Doesn't  he  want  us  to  be  hai)py? 

Adolph.  Do  I  want  it?    Yes,  but 

Tekla.  There  we  are  again!  Who  has  put  it  into  his  head 
that  he  is  not  to  paint  any  longer? 

Adolph.  Wlio?  You  are  always  looking  for  somebwly  else 
behind  me  and  my  thouglit.s.    Are  you  jealous? 

TekLuV.  Yes,  I  am.  I'm  afraid  somebo<ly  might  take  him 
away  from  me. 

Adolph.  Arc  you  really  afrai<l  of  that?  You  who  know 
that  no  other  woman  can  take  your  place,  and  that  I  cannot 
live  without  you! 

Tekl.\.  Well,  I  am  not  afraid  of  the  women — it's  your 
friends  that  fill  your  head  with  all  sorts  of  notions. 

Adolph.  [Watching  her]  You  are  afraid  then?  Of  what  are 
you  afraid? 

TekLu\.  [Getting  vp]  Somebody  has  been  here.  Who  has 
been  here? 


CREDITORS  35 

Adolph.  Don't  you  wish  me  to  look  at  you? 

Tekla.  Not  in  that  way:  it's  not  the  way  you  are  accus- 
tomed to  look  at  me. 

Adolph.  How  was  I  looking  at  you  then.-* 

Tekla.  Way  up  under  my  eyelids. 

Adolph.  Under  your  eyelids — yes,  I  wanted  to  see  what  is 
behind  them. 

Tekl.\.  See  all  you  can!  There  is  nothing  that  needs  to  be 
hidden.  But— you  talk  differently,  too— you  use  expressions 
— [studying  him]  you  philosophise — that's  what  you  do!  [Ap- 
proaches him  threateningly]  Who  has  been  here? 

Adolph.  Nobody  but  my  physician. 

Tekla.  Your  physician?    Who  is  he? 

Adolph.  That  doctor  from  Stromstad. 

Tekla.  What's  his  name? 

Adolph.  Sjoberg. 

Tekla.  What  did  he  have  to  say? 

Adolph.  He  said — well — among  other  things  he  said — 
that  I  am  on  the  verge  of  epilepsy 

Tekla.  Among  other  things?    What  more  did  he  say? 

Adolph.  Something  very  unpleasant. 

Tekla.  Tell  me! 

Adolph.  He  forbade  us  to  live  as  man  and  wife  for  a  while. 

Tekl.'V.  Oh,  that's  it!  Didn't  I  just  guess  it!  They  want 
to  separate  us!    That's  what  I  have  understood  a  long  time! 

Adolph.  You  can't  have  understood,  because  there  was 
nothing  to  understand. 

Tekla.  Oh  yes,  I  have! 

Adolph.  How  can  you  see  what  doesn't  exist,  unless  your 
fear  of  something  has  stirred  up  your  fancy  into  seeing  what 
has  never  existed?  What  is  it  you  fear?  That  I  might  borrow 
somebody  else's  eyes  in  order  to  see  you  as  you  are,  and  not 
as  you  seem  to  be? 


36  CREDITORS 

Tekla.  Keep  your  imagination  in  check,  Adolpb!  It  is 
the  beast  that  dwells  in  man's  soul. 

Adolph.  AMicre  did  you  learn  that?  From  those  chaste 
young  men  on  the  boat — did  you? 

Tekla.  [Not  at  all  abashed]  Yes,  there  is  something  to  be 
learned  from  youth  also. 

Adolph.  I  think  you  are  already  beginning  to  have  a  taste 
for  youth? 

Tekla.  I  have  always  liked  youth.  That's  why  I  love  you. 
Do  you  object? 

Adolph.  No,  l)ut  I  should  prefer  to  have  no  partners. 

Tekl.\.  [Prattling  rogxiislilij]  My  heart  Ls  so  big.  little 
brother,  that  there  is  room  in  it  for  many  more  than  him. 

Adolph.  But  little  brother  (hn^n't  want  any  more  brothers. 

Tekl,\.  Come  here  to  Pussy  now  and  got  his  hair  pulled 
because  he  is  jealous — no,  envious  is  the  right  word  for  it! 

Two  knocks  with  a  chair  are  heard  from  tfie  adjoining 
room,  where  Gustav  is. 

Adolph.  No,  I  don't  want  to  play  now.  I  want  to  talk 
seriously. 

Tekl.\.  [Prattling]  Mercy  me,  does  he  want  t«)  talk  seri- 
ously? Dreadful,  how  serious  he's  become!  [Takes  hold  of 
his  head  and  kisses  him]  Smile  a  little — there  now! 

Adolph.  [Smiling  against  his  will]  Oh,  you're  the  

I  might  almost  think  you  knew  how  to  use  magic! 

Tekl.\.  Well,  can't  he  see  now?  That's  why  he  shouldn't 
start  any  trouble — or  I  might  use  my  magic  to  make  him  in- 
visible! 

Adolpil  [Gets  vp]  Will  you  sit  for  me  a  moment,  Tekla? 
With  the  side  of  your  face  this  way,  so  that  I  can  put  a  face 
on  my  figure. 

Tekla.  Of  course,  I  will. 

[Turns  her  liead  so  lie  can  sec  her  in  profile. 


CREDITORS  37 

Adolph.  [Gazes  hard  at  her  while  'pretending  to  work  at  the 
figure]  Don't  think  of  me  now — but  of  somebody  else. 

Tekl.\.  I'll  think  of  my  latest  conquest. 

Adolph.  That  chaste  young  man? 

Tekla.  Exactly!  He  had  a  pair  of  the  prettiest,  sweetest 
moustaches,  and  his  cheek  looked  like  a  peach — it  was  so  soft 
and  rosy  that  you  just  wanted  to  bite  it. 

Adolph.  [Darkening]  Please  keep  that  expression  about 
the  mouth. 

Tekl.\.  ^^^lat  expression? 

Adolph.  A  cj-nical,  brazen  one  that  I  have  never  seen 
before. 

Tekla.  [Making  a  face]  This  one? 

Adolph.  Just  that  one!  [Getting  up]  Do  you  know  how 
Bret  Harte  pictures  an  adulteress? 

Tekla.  [Smiling]  No,  I  have  never  read  Bret  Something. 

Adolph.  As  a  pale  creature  that  cannot  blush. 

Tekla.  Not  at  all?  But  when  she  meets  her  lover,  then 
she  must  blush,  I  am  sure,  although  her  husband  or  Mr.  Bret 
may  not  be  allowed  to  see  it. 

Adolph.  Are  j'ou  so  sure  of  that? 

Tekla.  [.4*  before]  Of  course,  as  the  husband  is  not  capable 
of  bringing  the  blood  up  to  her  head,  he  cannot  hope  to  behold 
the  charming  spectacle. 

Adolph.  [Enraged]  Tekla! 

Tekla.  Oh,  you  little  ninny! 

Adolph.  Tekla! 

Tekla.  He  should  call  her  Pussy— then  I  might  get  up  a 
pretty  little  blush  for  his  sake.    Does  he  want  me  to? 

Adolph.  [Disarmed]  You  minx,  I'm  so  angry  with  you,  that 
I  could  bite  you ! 

Tekla.  [Playfully]  Come  and  bite  me  then!— Come! 

[Opens  Iter  arms  to  him. 


38  CREDITORS 

Adolph.  [Puts  his  hands  around  her  neck  and  kisses  her] 
Yes,  I'll  bite  you  to  deatli! 

Tekla.  [Teasingly]  Look  out — somebody  might  come! 

Adolph.  Well,  what  do  I  care!  I  care  for  nothing  else  in 
the  world  if  I  can  only  have  you ! 

Tekla.  And  when  you  don't  have  me  any  longer.' 

Adolph.  Then  I  shall  die! 

Tekla.  But  you  are  not  afraid  of  losing  me,  are  you — as  I 
am  too  old  to  be  wanted  by  anylxxly  else.'' 

Adolph.  You  have  not  forgotten  my  words  yet,  Tekla!  I 
take  it  all  back  now! 

Tekla.  Can  you  explain  to  me  why  you  are  at  once  so 
jealous  and  so  cock-sure.' 

Adolph.  No,  I  cannot  explain  anything  at  all.  But  it's 
possible  that  the  thought  of  somebody  else  having  possessed 
you  may  still  be  gnawing  within  me.  At  times  it  appears  to 
me  as  if  our  love  were  nothing  but  a  fiction,  an  attempt  at 
self-defence,  a  passion  kept  up  as  a  matter  of  honor — and  I 
can't  think  of  anything  that  would  give  me  more  pain  than  to 
have  him  know  that  I  am  unhappy.  Oh,  I  have  never  seen 
him — but  the  mere  thought  that  a  person  exists  who  is  waiting 
for  my  misfortune  to  arrive,  who  is  daily  calling  down  curses 
on  my  head,  who  will  roar  with  laughter  when  I  perish — the 
mere  idea  of  it  obsesses  me,  drives  me  nearer  to  you,  fascinates 
me,  paralj'ses  me! 

Tekla.  Do  you  think  I  would  let  him  have  that  joy?  Do 
you  think  I  would  make  his  prophecy  come  true? 

Adolph.  No,  I  cannot  think  you  would. 

Tekla.  Why  don't  you  keep  calm  then? 

Adolph.  No,  you  upset  me  constantly  l)y  your  coquetry. 
Why  do  you  play  that  kind  of  game? 

Tekla.  It  is  no  game.    I  want  to  be  admired — that's  all! 

Adolph.  Yes,  but  only  by  men! 


CREDITORS  39 

Tekla,  Of  course !  For  a  woman  is  never  admired  by  other 
women. 

Adolph.  Tell  me,  have  you  heard  anything — from  him — 
recently? 

Tekla.  Not  in  the  last  six  months. 

Adolph.  Do  you  ever  think  of  him? 

Tekla.  No! — Since  the  child  died  we  have  broken  off  our 
correspondence. 

Adolph.  And  you  have  never  seen  him  at  all? 

Tekla.  No,  I  understand  he  is  living  somewhere  down  on 
the  West  Coast.  But  why  is  all  this  coming  into  your  head 
just  now? 

Adolph.  I  don't  know.  But  during  the  last  few  days,  while 
I  was  alone,  I  kept  thinking  of  him — how  he  might  have  felt 
when  he  was  left  alone  that  time. 

Tekla.  Are  you  having  an  attack  of  bad  conscience? 

Adolph.  I  am. 

Tekla.  You  feel  like  a  thief,  do  you? 

Adolph.  Almost! 

Tekla.  Isn't  that  lovely!  Women  can  be  stolen  as  you 
steal  children  or  chickens?  And  you  regard  me  as  his  chattel 
or  personal  property.    I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you! 

Adolph.  No,  I  regard  you  as  his  wife.  And  that's  a  good 
deal  more  than  property — for  there  can  be  no  substitute. 

Tekla.  Oh,  yes!  If  you  only  heard  that  he  had  married 
again,  all  these  foolish  notions  would  leave  you. — Have  you 
not  taken  his  place  with  me? 

Adolph,  Well,  have  I? — And  did  you  ever  love  him? 

Tekla.  Of  course,  I  did ! 

Adolph.  And  then 

Tekla.  I  grew  tired  of  him! 

Adolph.  And  if  you  should  tire  of  me  also? 

Tekla.  But  I  won't! 


40  CREDITORS 

Adolph.  If  somebody  else  should  turn  up — one  who  had 
all  the  qualities  you  are  looking  for  in  a  man  now — suppose 
only — then  you  would  leave  me? 

Tekia.  No. 

Adolph.  If  he  captivated  you?  So  that  you  couldn't  live 
without  him?    Then  you  would  leave  me,  of  course? 

Tekla.  No,  that  doesn't  follow, 

Adolph.  But  you  couldn't  love  two  at  the  same  time,  could 
you? 

Tekl.\.  Yes!     Why  not? 

Adolph.  That's  something  I  cannot  understand. 

Tekla.  But  things  exist  although  you  do  not  understand 
them.    All  persons  are  not  made  ui  the  same  way,  you  know. 

Adolph.  I  begin  to  see  now! 

Tekl.v.  No,  really! 

Adolph.  No,  really?  [.1  pause  follows,  during  trhich  he 
seems  to  struggle  with  some  memory  that  will  not  come  back]  Do 
you  know,  Tekla,  that  your  frankness  is  beginning  to  be  pain- 
ful? 

TekIo^v.  And  yet  it  used  to  be  my  foremost  virtue  in  j'our 
mind,  and  one  that  you  taught  mc. 

Adolph.  Yes,  but  it  seems  to  me  as  if  j'ou  were  hiding  some- 
thing behind  that  frankness  of  yours. 

Tekl,\.  That's  the  new  tactics,  you  know. 

Adolph.  I  don't  know  why,  but  this  place  has  suddenly 
become  offensive  to  me.  If  you  feel  like  it,  we  might  return 
home — this  evening! 

Tekla.  \Yhat  kind  of  notion  is  that?  I  have  barely  arrived 
and  I  don't  feel  Hke  starting  on  another  trip. 

Adolph.  But  I  want  to. 

Tekla.  Well,  what's  that  to  me.' — You  can  go! 

Adolph.  But  I  demand  that  you  take  the  next  boat  with 
me! 


CREDITORS  41 

Tekla.  Demand? — What  are  you  talking  about? 

Adolph.  Do  you  realise  that  you  are  my  wife? 

Tekla.  Do  you  realise  that  you  are  m.y  husband? 

Adolph.  Well,  there's  a  difference  between  those  two 
things. 

Tekla.  Oh,  that's  the  way  you  are  talking  now! — You  have 
never  loved  me! 

Adolph.  Haven't  I? 

Tekla.  No,  for  to  love  is  to  give. 

Adolph.  To  love  like  a  man  is  to  give;  to  love  hke  a  woman 
is  to  take. — And  I  have  given,  given,  given! 

Tekla.  Pooh!     WTiat  have  you  given? 

Adolph.  Everything! 

Tekla.  That's  a  lot!  And  if  it  be  true,  then  I  must  have 
taken  it.  Are  you  beginning  to  send  in  bills  for  your  gifts 
now?  And  if  I  have  taken  anything,  this  proves  only  my  love 
for  you.  A  woman  cannot  receive  anything  except  from  her 
lover. 

Adolph.  Her  lover,  yes!  There  you  spoke  the  truth!  I 
have  been  your  lover,  but  never  your  husband. 

Tekla.  W^ell,  isn't  that  much  more  agreeable — to  escape 
playing  chaperon?  But  if  you  are  not  satisfied  with  your  posi- 
tion, I'll  send  you  packing,  for  I  don't  want  a  husband. 

Adolph.  No,  that's  what  I  have  noticed.  For  a  while  ago, 
when  you  began  to  sneak  away  from  me  like  a  thief  with  his 
booty,  and  when  you  began  to  seek  company  of  your  own 
where  you  could  flaunt  my  plumes  and  display  my  gems,  then 
I  felt  like  reminding  you  of  your  debt.  And  at  once  I  became 
a  troublesome  creditor  whom  you  wanted  to  get  rid  of.  You 
wanted  to  repudiate  your  own  notes,  and  in  order  not  to  in- 
crease your  debt  to  me,  you  stopped  pillaging  my  safe  and 
began  to  try  those  of  other  people  instead.  Without  having 
done  anything  myself,  I  became  to  you  merely  the  husband. 


42  CREDITORS 

And  now  I  am  going  to  be  your  husband  whether  you  Hke  it 
or  not,  as  I  am  not  allowed  to  be  your  lover  any  longer. 

Tekl.\.  [Playfully]  Now  he  shouldn't  talk  nonsense,  the 
sweet  little  idiot! 

Adolph.  Look  out:  it's  dangerous  to  think  everybody  an 
idiot  but  oneself! 

Tekla.  But  that's  what  everybody  thinks, 

Adolph.  And  I  am  beginning  to  suspect  that  he — your 
former  husband — was  not  so  much  of  an  idiot  after  all. 

Tekla.  Heavens!  Are  you  beginning  to  sympathise  with 
— him.'' 

Adolph.  Yes,  not  far  from  it. 

Tekla.  Well,  well!  Perhaps  you  would  like  to  make  his 
acquaintance  and  pour  out  your  overflowing  heart  to  him? 
"What  a  striking  picture!  But  I  am  also  beginning  to  feel 
drawn  to  him,  a,s  I  am  growing  more  and  more  tired  of  acting 
as  wetnurse.  For  he  was  at  least  a  man,  even  though  he  had 
the  fault  of  being  married  to  me. 

Adolph.  There,  you  see!  But  you  had  better  not  talk  so 
loud — we  might  be  overheard. 

Tekla.  What  would  it  matter  if  they  took  us  for  married 
people? 

Adolph.  So  now  you  are  getting  fond  of  real  male  men 
also,  and  at  the  same  time  you  have  a  taste  for  chaste  young 
men? 

Tekla.  There  are  no  limits  to  what  I  can  like,  as  you  may 
see.  My  heart  is  open  to  everybody  and  everything,  to  the 
big  and  the  small,  the  handsome  and  the  ugly,  the  new  and 
the  old — I  love  the  whole  world. 

Adolph.  Do  you  know  what  that  means? 

Tekla.  No,  I  don't  know  anything  at  all.    Ijust/cc/. 

Adolph.  It  means  that  old  age  is  near. 

Tekla.  There  you  are  again!    Take  care! 


CREDITORS  43 

Adolph.  Take  care  yourself! 

Tekla.  Of  what? 

Adolph.  Of  the  knife! 

Tekla.  [Prattlirig]  Little  brother  had  better  not  play  w  ith 
such  dangerous  things. 

Adolph.  I  have  quit  playing. 

Tekla.  Oh,  it's  earnest,  is  it.'  Dead  earnest!  Then  I'll 
show  you  that — you  are  mistaken.  That  is  to  say — you'll 
never  see  it,  never  know  it,  but  all  the  rest  of  the  world  will 
know  it.  And  you'll  suspect  it,  you'll  believe  it,  and  you'll 
never  have  another  moment's  peace.  You'll  have  the  feeling 
of  being  ridiculous,  of  being  deceived,  but  you'll  never  get 
any  proof  of  it.    For  that's  what  married  men  never  get. 

Adolph.  You  hate  me  then."* 

Tekla.  No,  I  don't.  And  I  don't  think  I  shall  either.  But 
that's  probably  because  you  are  nothing  to  me  but  a  child. 

Adolph.  At  this  moment,  yes.  But  do  you  remember  how 
it  was  while  the  storm  swept  over  us?  Then  you  lay  there  like 
an  infant  in  arms  and  just  cried.  Then  you  had  to  sit  on  my 
lap,  and  I  had  to  kiss  your  eyes  to  sleep.  Then  I  had  to  be 
your  nurse;  had  to  see  that  you  fixed  your  hair  before  going 
out;  had  to  send  your  shoes  to  the  cobbler,  and  see  that  there 
was  food  in  the  house.  I  had  to  sit  by  your  side,  holding  your 
hand  for  hours  at  a  time:  you  were  afraid,  afraid  of  the  whole 
world,  because  you  didn't  have  a  single  friend,  and  because 
you  were  crushed  by  the  hostility  of  public  opinion.  I  had 
to  talk  courage  into  you  until  my  mouth  was  dry  and  my  head 
ached.  I  had  to  make  myself  believe  that  I  was  strong.  I 
had  to  force  myself  into  believing  in  the  future.  And  so  I 
brought  you  back  to  life,  when  you  seemed  already  dead. 
Then  you  admired  me.  Then  I  was  the  man — not  that  kind 
of  athlete  you  had  just  left,  but  the  man  of  will-power,  the 
mesmerist  who  instilled  new  nervous  energy  into  your  flabby 


44  CREDITORS 

muscles  and  cliarged  your  empty  brain  with  a  new  store  of 
electricity.  And  then  I  gave  you  back  your  reputation.  I 
brought  you  new  friends,  furnished  you  with  a  little  court  of 
people  who,  for  the  sake  of  friendship  to  me,  let  themselves 
be  hired  into  admiring  you.  I  set  you  to  rule  me  and  my  house. 
Then  I  painted  my  best  pictures,  glimmering  with  reds  and 
blues  on  backgrounds  of  gold,  and  there  was  not  an  exhibi- 
tion then  where  I  didn't  hold  a  place  of  honour.  Sometimes 
you  were  St.  Cecilia,  and  sometimes  Mary  Stuart — or  little 
Karin,  whom  King  Eric  loved.  And  I  turned  public  attention 
in  your  direction.  I  compellc<l  the  clamon)Us  herd  to  see  you 
with  my  own  infatuated  vision.  I  plagued  them  with  your 
personality,  forced  you  literally  down  their  throats,  until  that 
sympathy  which  makes  everything  possible  became  yours  at 
last — and  you  could  stand  on  your  owTi  feci.  AMien  you 
reached  that  far,  then  my  strength  was  used  up,  and  I  col- 
lapsed from  the  overstrain — in  lifting  you  up,  I  had  pushed 
myself  down.  I  was  taken  ill,  and  my  illness  seemed  an  an- 
noyance to  you  at  the  moment  when  all  life  had  just  begun  to 
smile  at  you — and  sometimes  it  seemed  to  me  as  if,  in  your 
heart,  there  was  a  secret  desire  to  get  rid  of  your  creditor  and 
the  witness  of  your  rise.  Your  love  began  to  change  into  that 
of  a  grown-up  sister,  and  for  lack  of  better  I  accustomctl  my- 
self to  the  new  part  of  little  brother.  Your  tenderness  for  me 
remained,  and  even  increased,  but  it  was  minglcfl  with  a  sug- 
gestion of  pity  that  had  in  it  a  good  deal  of  contempt.  And 
this  changed  into  open  scorn  as  my  talent  withered  and  your 
own  sun  rose  higher.  But  in  some  mysterious  way  the  foun- 
tainhead  of  your  inspiration  seemed  to  dry  up  when  I  could  no 
longer  replenish  it — or  rather  when  you  wanted  to  show  its 
independence  of  me.  And  at  last  both  of  us  began  to  lose 
ground.  And  then  you  looked  for  somebody  to  put  the  blame 
on.     A  new  victim!    For  you  arc  weak,  and  you  can  never 


CREDITORS  45 

carry  your  o\\'n  burdens  of  guilt  and  debt.  And  so  you  picked 
me  for  a  scapegoat  and  doomed  me  to  slaughter.  But  when 
you  cut  my  thews,  you  didn't  realise  that  you  were  also  crip- 
pling yourself,  for  by  this  time  our  years  of  common  life  had 
made  twins  of  us.  You  were  a  shoot  sprung  from  my  stem, 
and  you  wanted  to  cut  yourself  loose  before  the  shoot  had  put 
out  roots  of  its  own,  and  that's  why  you  couldn't  grow  by 
yourself.  And  my  stem  could  not  spare  its  main  branch — and 
so  stem  and  branch  must  die  together. 

TekLu\.  ^Miat  you  mean  with  all  this,  of  course,  is  that 
you  have  written  my  books. 

Adolph.  No,  that's  what  you  want  me  to  mean  in  order 
to  make  me  out  a  liar.  I  don't  use  such  crude  expressions  as 
you  do,  and  I  spoke  for  something  like  five  minutes  to  get  in 
all  the  nuances,  all  the  halftones,  all  the  transitions— but 
your  hand-organ  has  only  a  single  note  in  it. 

Tekl.^.  Yes,  but  the  summary  of  the  whole  story  is  that 
you  have  written  my  books. 

Adolph.  No,  there  is  no  summar\\  You  cannot  reduce  a 
chord  into  a  single  note.  You  cannot  translate  a  varied  life 
into  a  sum  of  one  figure.  I  have  made  no  blunt  statements 
like  that  of  having  written  your  books. 

Tekla.  But  that's  what  you  meant! 

Adolph.  {Beyond  himself]  I  did  not  mean  it; 

TekLu\.  But  the  sum  of  it 

Adolph.  [Wildly]  There  can  be  no  sum  without  an  addi- 
tion. You  get  an  endless  decimal  fraction  for  quotient  when 
your  division  does  not  work  out  evenly.  I  have  not  added 
anything. 

Tekla.  But  I  can  do  the  adding  myself. 

Adolph.  I  believe  it,  but  then  I  am  not  doing  it. 

Tekla.  No,  but  that's  what  you  wanted  to  do. 

Adolph.  [Exhausted,  closing  his  eyes]  No,  no,  no — don't 


46  CREDITORS 

speak  to  me — you'll  drive  me  into  convulsions.  Keep  silent! 
Leave  me  alone!  You  mutilate  my  brain  with  your  clumsy 
pincers — you  put  your  claws  into  my  thoughts  and  tear  them 
to  pieces! 

Ue  seems  almost  itnconscious  and  sits  staring  straight 
ahead  while  his  thumbs  are  bent  imcard  against  tlie 
folms  of  his  hands. 

Tekl.\.  [Tenderli/]  What  is  it?    Are  you  sick? 
Adolpii  motions  her  away. 

Tekla.  Adolph! 

Adolpii  shakes  his  head  at  her. 

Tekla.  Adolph. 

Adolph.  Yes. 

Tekla.  Do  you  admit  that  you  were  unjust  a  moment  ago? 

Adolph.  Yes,  yes,  yes,  yes,  I  admit! 

Tekla.  And  do  j^ou  ask  my  pardon? 

Adolph.  Yes,  yes,  yes,  I  ask  your  pardon — if  you  only 
won't  speak  to  me! 

Tekla.  Kiss  my  hand  then! 

Adolph.  [Kissing  her  haiid]  I'll  kiss  your  hand — if  you  only 
don't  speak  to  me! 

Tekla.  And  now  you  had  better  go  out  for  a  breath  of 
fresh  air  before  dinner. 

Adolph.  Yes,  I  think  I  need  it.    And  then  we'll  pack  and 
leave. 

Tekla.  No! 

Adolph.  [On  his  feet]  \Vhj^?    There  must  be  a  reason. 

Tekla.  The  reason  is  that  I  have  promised  to  be  at  the 
concert  to-night. 

Adolph.  Oh,  that's  it! 

Tekla.  Yes,  that's  it.    I  have  promised  to  attend 

Adolph.  Promised?     Probably   you   said  only   that  j'ou 


CREDITORS  47 

might  go,  and  that  wouldn't  prevent  you  from  saying  now 
that  you  won't  go. 

Tekla.  No,  I  am  not  like  you:  I  keep  my  word. 

Adolph.  Of  course,  promises  should  be  kept,  but  we  don't 
have  to  live  up  to  every  little  word  we  happen  to  drop.  Per- 
haps there  is  somebody  who  has  made  you  promise  to  go. 

Tekla.  Yes. 

Adolph.  Then  you  can  ask  to  be  released  from  your  prom- 
ise because  your  husband  is  sick. 

Tekla.  No,  I  don't  want  to  do  that,  and  you  are  not  sick 
enough  to  be  kept  from  going  with  me. 

Adolph.  Why  do  you  always  want  to  drag  me  along.''  Do 
you  feel  safer  then? 

Tekla.  I  don't  know  what  you  mean. 

Adolph.  That's  what  you  always  say  when  you  know  I 
mean  something  that — doesn't  please  j'ou. 

Tekl-iv.  So-o!    What  is  it  now  that  doesn't  please  me? 

Adolph.  Oh,  I  beg  you,  don't  begin  over  again — Good-bye 
for  a  while! 

Goes  out  through  the  door  in  the  rear  and  then  turns  to 

the  right. 
Tekla  is  left  alone.    A  moment  later  Gustav  enters  and 
goes  straight  up  to  the  table  as  if  looking  for  a  news- 
paper.   He  pretends  not  to  see  Tekla. 

Tekla.  [Shows  agitation,  hut  manages  to  control  herself]  Oh, 
is  it  you? 

Gustav.  Yes,  it's  me — I  beg  your  pardon ! 

Tekla.  Which  way  did  you  come? 

Gustav.  By  land.    But — I  am  not  going  to  stay,  as 

Tekla.  Oh,  there  is  no  reason  why  you  shouldn't. — Well, 
li  was  some  time  ago 

Gustav.  Yes,  some  time. 

Tekla.  You  have  changed  a  great  deal. 


48  CREDITORS 

GusTAV.  And  you  are  as  charming  as  ever.  A  little 
younger,  if  anything.  Excuse  me,  however— I  am  nut  going 
to  spoil  your  happiness  by  my  presence.  And  if  I  had  known 
you  were  here,  I  should  never 

Tekla.  If  you  don't  think  it  improper,  I  should  like  you 

to  stay. 

GusTAV.  On  my  part  there  could  ho  no  objection,  but  I 
fear — well,  whatever  I  say,  I  am  sure  to  offend  you. 

Tekl.\.  Sit  down  a  moment.  You  don't  offend  me,  for 
you  possess  that  rare  gift— which  was  always  yours — of  tact 
and  politeness. 

GusTAV.  It's  very  kind  of  you.  But  one  could  hardly 
expect — that  your  husband  might  regard  my  qualities  in  the 
same  generous  light  as  you. 

Tekl.\.  On  the  contrary,  he  lias  just  been  speaking  of  you 
in  very  sympathetic  terms. 

GusTAV.  Oh! — ^^\•ll.  everything  becomes  covered  up  by 
time,  like  names  cut  in  a  tree — and  not  even  dislike  can  main- 
tain itself  permanently  in  our  minds. 

Tekl.\.  He  ha-s  never  dislike<l  you.  for  he  has  never  seen 
you.  And  as  for  me,  I  have  always  cherishixl  a  dream — that 
of  seeing  you  come  together  as  friends — or  at  least  of  seeing 
you  meet  for  once  in  my  presence — of  seeing  you  shake  hands 
— and  then  go  your  different  ways  again. 

GusTAV.  It  has  also  been  my  secret  longing  to  see  her  whom 
I  used  to  love  more  than  my  own  life — to  make  sure  that  she 
was  in  good  hands.  And  although  I  have  heard  nothing  but 
good  of  him,  and  am  familiar  with  all  his  work,  I  should  never- 
theless have  liked,  liefore  it  grew  too  late,  to  lot)k  into  his 
eyes  and  beg  him  to  take  good  care  of  the  treasure  Providence 
has  place<l  in  his  possession.  In  that  way  I  hoped  also  to  lay 
the  hatred  that  must  have  developed  instinctively  between 
us;  I  wished  to  bring  some  peace  and  humility  into  my  soul, 


CREDITORS  49 

so  that  I  might  manage  to  live  through  the  rest  of  my  sorrow- 
ful days. 

TekLu^.  You  have  uttered  my  own  thoughts,  and  you  have 
understood  me.    I  thank  j^ou  for  it! 

GusTAV.  Oh,  I  am  a  man  of  small  account,  and  have  al- 
ways been  too  insignificant  to  keep  you  in  the  shadow.  My 
monotonous  way  of  living,  my  drudgery,  my  narrow  horizons 
— all  that  could  not  satisfy  a  soul  like  yours,  longing  for  liberty. 
I  admit  it.  But  you  understand — you  who  have  searched  the 
human  soul — what  it  cost  me  to  make  such  a  confession  to 
myself. 

TekLu\.  It  is  noble,  it  is  splendid,  to  acknowledge  one's  own 
shortcomings — and  it's  not  everybody  that's  capable  of  it. 
[S/^^5]  But  yours  has  always  been  an  honest,  and  faithful, 
and  reliable  nature — one  that  I  had  to  respect — but 

GusTAV.  Not  always — not  at  that  time!  But  suffering 
purifies,  sorrow  ennobles,  and — I  have  suffered! 

Tekla.  PoorGustav!  Can  you  forgive  me. ^^  Tell  me,  can 
you.? 

GusTAV.  Forgive.'  What?  I  am  the  one  who  must  ask 
you  to  forgive. 

Tekla.  [Changing  tone]  I  believe  we  are  crying,  both  of 
us — we  who  are  old  enough  to  know  better! 

GusTAV.  [Feeling  his  way]  Old.'  Yes,  I  am  old.  But  you — 
you  grow  younger  every  day. 

He  has  by  that  time  manoeuvred  himself  up  to  the  chair  on 
the  left  and  sits  down  on  it,  whereupon  Tekla.  sits  down 
on  the  sofa. 

Tekla.  Do  you  think  so? 

GusTAV.  And  then  you  know  how  to  dress. 

Tekla,  I  learned  that  from  you.  Don't  you  remember 
how  you  figured  out  what  colors  would  be  most  becoming  to 
me? 


50  CREDITORS 

GUSTAV.   No. 

Tekla.  Yes,  don't  you  remember — hm ! — I  can  even  recall 
how  you  used  to  be  angry  with  me  whenever  I  failed  to  have 
at  least  a  touch  of  crimson  about  my  dress. 

GuSTAV.  No,  not  angry!    I  was  never  angry  with  you. 

Tekla.  Oh,  yes,  when  you  wanted  to  teach  me  how  to 
thiuk^do  you  remember.'  For  that  was  something  I  couldn't 
do  at  all. 

GuSTAV.  Of  course,  you  could.  It's  something  every  human 
being  does.  And  you  have  become  quite  keen  at  it — at  least 
when  you  write. 

Tekla.  [Unpleasantly  impressed;  hurrying  her  words]  Well, 
my  dear  Gustav,  it  is  pleasant  to  see  you  anyhow,  and  es- 
pecially in  a  peaceful  way  like  this. 

GusTAV.  AVoll,  I  can  hardly  l)e  called  a  troublemaker,  and 
you  had  a  pretty  peaceful  time  v  ith  me. 

Tekla.  Perhaps  too  much  so. 

Gustav.  Oh!  But  you  see,  I  thought  you  wanted  me  that 
way.  It  was  at  least  the  impression  you  gave  me  while  we 
were  engaged. 

Tekla.  Do  you  think  one  really  knows  what  one  wants  at 
that  time.'  And  then  the  mammas  insist  on  all  kinds  of  pre- 
tensions, of  course. 

GusTAV.  Well,  now  you  must  be  having  all  the  excitement 
you  can  wish.  They  say  that  life  among  artists  is  rather  swift, 
and  I  don't  think  j'our  husband  can  be  called  a  sluggard. 

Tekla.  You  can  get  too  much  of  a  good  thing. 

GusTAV.  [Trying  a  new  tack]  What!  I  do  believe  you  are 
still  wearing  the  ear-rings  I  gave  you.' 

Tekl.\.  [Embarrassed]  Why  not?  There  was  never  any 
quarrel  between  us — and  then  I  thought  I  might  wear  them 
as  a  token — and  a  reminder — that  we  were  not  enemies.    And 


CREDITORS  51 

then,  you  know,  it  is  impossible  to  buy  tliis  kind  of  ear-rings 
any  longer.  [Takes  off  one  of  her  ear-rings. 

GusTAV.  Oh,  that's  all  right,  but  what  does  your  husband 
say  of  it? 

Tekla.  Why  should  I  mind  what  he  says? 

GusTAV.  Don't  you  mind  that? — But  you  may  be  doing  him 
an  injury.    It  is  likely  to  make  him  ridiculous. 

Tekla.  [Brusquely,  as  if  speakitig  to  herself  alviost]  He  was 
that  before! 

GusTAv.  [Rises  when  he  notes  her  difficulty  in  putting  hack 
the  ear-ring]  May  I  help  you,  perhaps? 

Tekla.  Oh — thank  you ! 

GusTAV.  [Pinching  her  ear]  That  tiny  ear!— Think  only 
if  your  husband  could  see  us  now! 

Tekla.  Wouldn't  he  howl,  though! 

GusTAV.  Is  he  jealous  also? 

Tekla.  Is  he?    I  should  say  so! 

[A  noise  is  heard  from  the  room  on  the  right. 

GusTAV.  Who  lives  in  that  room? 

Tekla.  I  don't  know.— But  tell  me  how  you  are  getting 
along  and  what  you  are  doing? 

GusTAV.  Tell  me  rather  how  you  are  getting  along? 

Tekla  is  visibly  confused,  and  toithout  realising  lohat 
she  is  doing,  she  takes  the  cover  off  the  wax  figure. 

GusTAV.  Hello!    What's  that?— Well!— It  must  be  you! 

Tekla.  I  don't  believe  so. 

GusTAV.  But  it  is  very  like  you. 

Tekla.  [Cynically]  Do  you  think  so? 

GusTAV.  That  reminds  me  of  the  story — you  know  it — 
"How  could  your  majesty  see  that?" 

Tekla.  [Laughing   aloud]  You   are   impossible! — Do   you 
know  any  new  stories? 

GusTAV.  No,  but  you  ought  to  have  some. 


52  CREDITORS 

Tekla.  Oh,  I  never  hear  anything  funny  nowadays. 

GusTAV.  Is  he  modest  also? 

Tekla.  Oh— well 

GusTAV.  Not  in  everything? 

Tekla.  He  isn't  well  just  now. 

GusTAV.  Well,  why  should  little  brother  put  his  nose  into 
other  people's  hives? 

Tekl.\.  [Laitghing]  You  crazj'  thing! 

GusTAV.  Poor  chap ! — Do  you  remember  once  when  we  were 
just  married — we  lived  in  this  very  room.  It  was  furnishetl 
differently  in  those  days.  There  was  a  chest  of  drawers  against 
that  wall  there — and  over  there  stood  the  big  bed. 

Tekl.\.  Now  you  stop! 

GusTAV.  Look  at  me! 

Tekla.  Well,  why  shouldn't  I? 

[They  look  hard  at  each  other. 

GusTAV.  Do  you  think  a  person  can  ever  forget  anything 
that  has  made  a  very  deep  impression  on  him? 

Tekla.  No!  And  our  memories  have  a  tremendous  power. 
Particularly  the  memories  of  our  youth. 

GusTAV.  Do  you  remember  when  I  first  met  you?  Then 
you  were  a  pretty  little  girl:  a  slate  on  which  parents  and 
governesses  had  made  a  few  scrawls  that  I  had  to  wipe  out. 
And  then  I  filled  it  with  inscriptions  that  suited  my  own  mind, 
until  you  believed  the  slate  could  hold  nothing  more.  That's 
the  reason,  you  know,  why  I  shouldn't  care  to  be  in  your  hus- 
band's place — well,  that's  his  business!  But  it's  also  the  rea- 
son why  I  take  pleasure  in  meeting  you  again.  Our  thoughts 
fit  together  exactly.  And  as  I  sit  here  and  chat  with  you, 
it  seems  to  me  like  drinking  old  wine  of  my  own  bottling.  Yes, 
it's  my  own  wine,  but  it  has  gained  a  great  deal  in  flavour! 
And  now,  when  I  am  about  to  marry  again,  I  have  purposely 
picked  out  a  young  girl  whom  I  can  educate  to  suit  myself. 


CREDITORS  53 

For  the  woman,  you  know,  is  the  man's  child,  and  if  she  is  not,      / 
he  becomes  hers,  and  then  the  world  turns  topsy-turvy.  | 

Tekla.  Are  you  going  to  marry  again? 

GusTAV.  Yes,  I  want  to  try  my  luck  once  more,  but  this 
time  I  am  going  to  make  a  better  start,  so  that  it  w^on't  end 
again  with  a  spUl. 

Tekla.  Is  she  good  looking? 

GusTAV.  Yes,  to  me.  But  perhaps  I  am  too  old.  It's 
queer — now  when  chance  has  brought  me  together  with  you 
again — I  am  beginning  to  doubt  whether  it  will  be  pos- 
sible to  play  the  game  over  again. 

Tekla.  How  do  you  mean? 

GusTAV.  I  can  feel  that  my  roots  stick  in  your  soil,  and 
the  old  wounds  are  beginning  to  break  open.  You  are  a 
dangerous  woman,  Tekla! 

Tekla.  Am  I?  And  my  young  husband  says  that  I  can 
make  no  more  conquests. 

GusTAV.  That  means  he  has  ceased  to  love  you. 

Tekla.  Well,  I  can't  quite  make  out  what  love  means  to 
him. 

GusTAV.  You  have  been  playuig  hide  and  seek  so  long  that 
at  last  you  cannot  find  each  other  at  all.  Such  things  do  hap- 
pen. You  have  had  to  play  the  innocent  to  yourself,  until  he 
has  lost  his  courage.  There  are  some  drawbacks  to  a  change, 
I  tell  you — there  are  drawbacks  to  it,  indeed. 

Tekla.  Do  you  mean  to  reproach 

GusTAV.  Not  at  all !  Whatever  happens  is  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent necessary,  for  if  it  didn't  happen,  somethmg  else  would — 
but  now  it  did  happen,  and  so  it  had  to  happen. 

Tekla.  You  are  a  man  of  discernment.  And  I  have  never 
met  anybody  with  whom  I  liked  so  much  to  exchange  ideas. 
You  are  so  utterly  free  from  all  morality  and  preaching,  and 
you  ask  so  little  of  people,  that  it  is  possible  to  be  oneself  in 


54  CREDITORS 

your  presence.    Do  you  know,  I  am  jealous  of  your  intended 
wife! 

GusTAV.  And  do  you  realise  that  I  am  jealous  of  your  hus- 
band ? 

Tekla.  [Rising]  And  now  we  must  part!    For  ever! 

GusTAV.  Yes,  we  must  part!  But  not  without  a  farewell — 
or  what  do  you  say? 

Tekl.\.  [Agitated]  No! 

GusTAV.  [Following  after  her]  Yes! — Let  us  have  a  farewell ! 
Let  us  drown  our  memories — you  know,  there  are  intoxica- 
tions so  deep  that  when  you  wake  up  all  memories  are  gone. 
[Putting  his  arm  around  her  waist]  You  have  been  dragged 
down  1)3'  a  diseased  spirit,  who  is  infecting  you  with  his  own 
annemia.  I'll  breathe  new  life  into  you.  I'll  make  your  talent 
blossom  again  in  your  autumn  days,  like  a  remontant  rose. 

I'll 

Two  Ladies  in  travelling  dress  are  seen  in  the  doorway 
leading  to  the  veranda.  They  look  surprised.  Tfien 
they  point  at  those  within,  laugh,  and  disappear. 

Tekla.  [Freeing  herself]  Who  was  that? 

GusTAV.  [Indifferently]  Some  tourists. 

Tekla.  Leave  me  alone!    I  am  afraid  of  you ! 

GusTAV.  Why? 

Tekla.  You  take  my  soul  away  from  me! 

GusTAV.  And  give  you  my  own  in  its  jilace!  And  you  have 
no  soul  for  that  matter — it's  nothing  but  a  delusion. 

TekL-V.  You  have  a  way  of  saying  impolite  things  so  that 
nobody  can  be  angry  with  yt)u. 

GusTAV.  It's  because  you  feel  that  I  hold  the  first  mortgage 
on  you —     Tell  me  now,  when — and — where? 

Tekl.\.  No,  it  wouldn't  be  right  to  him.  I  think  he  is  still 
in  love  with  me,  and  I  don't  want  to  do  any  more  harm. 

GusTAV.  He  does  not  love  you!    Do  you  want  proofs? 


CREDITORS  55 

Tekl.\.  Where  can  you  get  them? 

GusTAV.  [Picking  vp  the  pieces  of  the  jjhotograph  from  the 
floor]  'Revel     See  for  yourself ! 

Tekl.\.  Oh,  that's  an  outrage! 

GusTAV.  Do  you  see?    Now  then,  when?     And  where? 

Tekla.  The  false-hearted  wretch! 

GusTAV,  When? 

Tekla.  He  leaves  to-night,  with  the  eight-o'clock  boat. 

GusTAV.  And  then 

Tekla.  At  nine!  [A  noise  is  heard  from  the  adjoining  room] 
Who  can  be  living  in  there  that  makes  such  a  racket? 

GusTAV.  Let's  see!  [Goes  over  arid  looks  through  the  key- 
hole] There's  a  table  that  has  been  upset,  and  a  smashed 
water  caraffe — that's  all!  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  they  had  left 
a  dog  locked  up  in  there. — At  nine  o'clock  then? 

Tekla.  All  right!  And  let  him  answer  for  it  himself. — 
■\Miat  a  depth  of  deceit!  And  he  who  has  always  preached 
about  truthfulness,  and  tried  to  teach  me  to  tell  the  truth! 
— But  wait  a  little — how  was  it  now?  He  received  me  with 
something  hke  hostility — didn't  meet  me  at  the  landing— and 
then — and  then  he  made  some  remark  about  young  men  on 
board  the  boat,  which  I  pretended  not  to  hear— but  how  could 
he  know?  Wait — and  then  he  began  to  philosophise  about 
women — and  then  the  spectre  of  you  seemed  to  be  haunting 
him — and  he  talked  of  becoming  a  sculptor,  that  being  the 
art  of  the  time — exactly  in  accordance  with  your  old  specula- 
tions ! 

GusTAv.  No,  really! 

Tekla.  No,  really?— Oh,  now  I  understand!    Now  I  be-     j 
gin  to  see  what  a  hideous  creature  you  are!    You  have  been    / 
here  before  and  stabbed  him  to  death!    It  was  you  who  had    / 
been  sitting  there  on  the  sofa;  it  was  you  who  made  him  think   j 
himself  an  epileptic— that  he  had  to  live  in  celibacy;   that  he   I 


56  CREDITORS 

ought  to  rise  in  rebellion  against  his  wife;  yes,  it  was  you! — 
How  long  have  you  been  here? 

GusTAV.  I  have  been  here  a  week. 

Tekla.  It  was  you,  then,  I  saw  on  board  the  boat? 

GusTAV.  It  was. 

Tekla.  And  now  you  were  thinking  you  could  trap  me? 

GusTAV.  It  ha-s  been  done. 

Tekla.  Not  yet! 

GusTAV.  Yes! 

Tekla.  Like  a  wolf  yon  went  after  my  lamb.  You  came 
here  with  a  villainous  plan  to  break  up  my  happiness,  and  you 
were  carrying  it  out,  when  my  eyes  were  opened,  and  I  foiled 
you. 

GusTAV.  Not  quite  that  way,  if  you  please.  This  is  how  it 
liappened  in  reality.  Of  course,  it  has  been  my  secret  hope 
that  disaster  might  overtake  you.  But  I  felt  practically  cer- 
tain that  no  interference  on  my  part  was  required.  And  be- 
sides, I  have  been  far  too  l)usy  to  have  any  time  left  for  in- 
triguing. Cut  when  I  happened  to  be  moving  about  a  bit, 
and  happened  to  sec  you  with  those  young  men  on  lioard  the 
boat,  then  I  guessed  the  time  had  come  for  me  to  take  a  look 
at  the  situation.  I  came  here,  and  your  lamb  threw  itself 
into  the  arms  of  the  wolf.  I  won  his  affection  by  some  sort 
of  reminiscent  impression  which  I  shall  not  be  tactless  enough 
to  explain  to  you.  At  6rst  he  aroused  my  sympathy,  because 
he  seemed  to  be  in  the  same  fix  as  I  was  once.  But  then  he 
happened  to  touch  old  wounds — that  book,  you  know,  and 
"the  idiot" — and  I  was  seized  with  a  wish  to  pick  him 
to  pieces,  and  to  mix  up  these  so  thoroughly  that  they 
couldn't  be  put  together  again — and  I  succeeded,  thanks  to 
the  painstaking  way  in  which  you  had  done  the  work  of  prepa- 
ration. Then  I  had  to  deal  with  you.  For  you  were  the 
spring  that  had  kept  the  works  moving,  and  j'ou  had  to  be 


CREDITORS  57 

taken  apart — and  what  a  buzzing  followed ! — When  I  came  in 
here,  I  didn't  know  exactly  what  to  say.  Like  a  chess-player, 
I  had  laid  a  number  of  tentative  plans,  of  course,  but  my  play 
had  to  depend  on  your  moves.  One  thing  led  to  the  other, 
chance  lent  me  a  hand,  and  finally  I  had  you  where  I  wanted 
you. — Now  you  are  caught! 

Tekla.  No! 

GusTAV.  Yes,  you  are!  What  you  least  wanted  has  hap- 
pened. The  world  at  large,  represented  by  two  lady  tourists 
— whom  I  had  not  sent  for,  as  I  am  not  an  intriguer — the  world 
has  seen  how  you  became  reconciled  to  your  former  husband, 
and  how  you  sneaked  back  repentantly  into  his  faithful  arms. 
Isn't  that  enough.'' 

Tekla.  It  ought  to  be  enough  for  your  revenge —  But 
tell  me,  how  can  you,  who  are  so  enlightened  and  so  right- 
minded — how  is  it  possible  that  you,  who  think  whatever 
happens  must  happen,  and  that  all  our  actions  are  determined 
in  advance 

GusTAV.  [Correcting  her]  To  a  certain  extent  determined. 

Tekla.  That's  the  same  thing! 

GusTAV.  No! 

Tekla.  [Disregarding  him]  How  is  it  possible  that  you,  who 
hold  me  guiltless,  as  I  was  driven  by  my  nature  and  the  cir- 
cumstances into  acting  as  I  did — how  can  you  think  yourself 
entitled  to  revenge — .'* 

GusTAV.  For  that  very  reason — for  the  reason  that  my 
nature  and  the  circumstances  drove  me  into  seeking  revenge.  ■■,/ 
Isn't  that  giving  both  sides  a  square  deal?    But  do  you  know 
why  you  two  had  to  get  the  worst  of  it  in  this  struggle? 
Tekla  looks  scornful. 

GusTAV.  And  why  you  were  doomed  to  be  fooled?  Because 
I  am  stronger  than  you,  and  wiser  also.  You  have  been  the 
idiot — and  he!     And  now  you  may  perceive  that  a  man  need 


f 


58  CREDITORS 

not  be  an  idiot  because  he  doesn't  write  novels  or  paint  pic- 
tures.   It  might  be  well  for  you  to  bear  this  in  mind. 

Tekla.  Are  you  then  entirely  without  feelings.' 

GusTAV.  Entirely !  And  for  that  very  reason,  you  know,  I 
am  capable  of  thinking — in  which  you  have  had  no  experience 
whatever — and  of  acting — in  which  you  have  just  had  some 
slight  experience. 

Tekla.  And  all  this  merely  because  I  have  hurt  your  van- 
ity? 

GusTAV.  Don't  call  that  vierchj!  You  had  better  not  go 
around  hurting  other  people's  vanity.  They  have  no  more 
sensitive  spot  than  that. 

Tekla.  Vindictive  wretch — shame  on  you! 

GusTAV.  Dissolute  wretch — shame  on  you! 

Tekla.  Oh,  that's  my  character,  is  it? 

GusTAV.  Oh,  that's  my  character,  is  it? — You  ought  to 
learn  something  about  human  nature  in  others  before  you  give 
your  own  nature  free  rein.  Otherwise  you  may  get  hurt,  and 
then  there  will  be  wailing  and  gnashing  of  teeth. 

Tekla.  You  can  never  forgive 

GusTAV.  Yes,  I  have  forgiven  you! 

Tekl.'V.  You! 

GusTAV.  Of  course!  Have  I  raised  a  hand  against  you 
during  all  these  years?  No!  And  now  I  came  here  only  to 
have  a  look  at  you,  and  it  was  enough  to  burst  your  bubble. 
Have  I  uttered  a  single  reproach?  Have  I  moralised  or 
preached  sermons?  No!  I  played  a  joke  or  two  on  your 
dear  consort,  and  nothing  more  was  needed  to  finish  him. — 
But  there  is  no  reason  why  I,  the  complainant,  should  be  de- 
fending myself  as  I  am  now — Tekla !  Have  you  nothing  at  all 
to  reproach  j^ourself  with? 

TekkiV.  Nothing  at  all!     Christians  say  that  our  actions 


CREDITORS  59 

are  governed  by  Providence;    others  call  it  Fate;    in  either 
case,  are  we  not  free  from  all  liability? 

GusTAV.  In  a  measure,  yes;  but  there  is  always  a  narrow 
margin  left  unprotected,  and  there  the  liability  applies  in 
spite  of  all.  And  sooner  or  later  the  creditors  make  thei.-  ap- 
pearance. Guiltless,  but  accountable!  Guiltless  in  regard  to 
one  who  is  no  more;  accountable  to  oneself  and  one's  fellow 
beings. 

Tekla.  So  you  came  here  to  dun  me? 

GusTAV.  I  came  to  take  back  what  you  had  stolen,  not 
what  you  had  received  as  a  gift.  You  had  stolen  my  honour, 
and  I  could  recover  it  only  by  taking  yours.  This,  I  think,  was 
my  right — or  was  it  not? 

Tekla.  Honour?    Hm!    And  now  you  feel  satisfied? 

GusTAV.  Now  I  feel  satisfied.  [Rings  for  a  waiter. 

Tekla.  And  now  you  are  going  home  to  your  fiancee? 

GusTAV.  I  have  no  fiancee!  Nor  am  I  ever  going  to  have 
one.  I  am  not  going  home,  for  I  have  no  home,  and  don't 
want  one. 

A  Waiter  comes  in. 

GusTAV.  Get  me  my  bill — I  am  leaving  by  the  eight  o'clock 
boat. 

The  Waiter  bows  and  goes  out. 

Tekla.  Without  making  up? 

GusTAV.  Making  up?  You  use  such  a  lot  of  words  that 
have  lost  their  meaning.  Why  should  we  make  up?  Perhaps 
you  want  all  three  of  us  to  live  together?  You,  if  anybody, 
ought  to  make  up  by  making  good  what  you  took  away,  but 
this  you  cannot  do.  You  just  took,  and  what  you  took  you 
consumed,  so  that  there  is  nothing  left  to  restore. — Will  it 
satisfy  you  if  I  say  like  this :  forgive  me  that  you  tore  my  heart 
to  pieces;  forgive  me  that  you  disgraced  me;  forgive  me 
that  you  made  me  the  laughing-stock  of  my  pupils  through 


60  CREDITORS 

every  week-day  of  seven  long  years;  forgive  me  that  I  set  you 
free  from  parental  restraints,  that  I  released  you  from  the 
tyranny  of  ignorance  and  superstition,  that  I  set  you  to  rule 
my  house,  that  I  gave  you  position  and  friends,  that  I  made 
a  woman  out  of  the  child  you  were  before?  Forgive  me  as  I 
forgive  you! — Now  I  have  torn  up  your  note!  Now  you  can 
go  and  settle  your  account  with  the  other  one! 

Tekla.  What  have  you  done  with  him?  I  am  beginning 
to  suspect — something  terrible! 

GusTAV.  AYith  him?    Do  you  still  love  him? 

Tekl.'V.  Yes! 

GusTAV.  And  a  moment  ago  it  was  me!  Was  that  also  true? 

Tekla.  It  was  true. 

GusTAV.  Do  you  know  what  you  are  then? 

Tekla.  You  despise  me? 

GusTAV.  I  pity  you.  It  is  a  trait — I  don't  call  it  a  fault 
— just  a  trait,  which  is  rendered  disadvantageous  by  its  results. 
Poor  Tekla!  I  don't  know — but  it  seems  almost  as  if  I  were 
feeling  a  certain  regret,  although  I  am  as  free  from  any  guilt 
— as  you!  But  perhaps  it  will  be  useful  to  you  to  feel  what  I 
felt  that  time. — Do  you  know  where  your  husband  is? 

Tekla.  I  think  I  know  now — he  is  in  that  room  in  there! 
And  he  has  heard  everytliing!  And  seen  everything!  And 
the  man  who  sees  his  own  wraith  dies! 

^Vdolpii  appears  in  tlw  doorway  hading  to  the  veranda. 
nis  face  is  white  as  a  sheet,  and  there  is  a  bleeding 
scratch  on  one  check.  His  eyes  arc  staring  and  void 
of  all  expression.     His  lips  are  covered  tcith  froth. 

GusTAV.  [Shrinking  bade]  No,  there  he  is! — Now  you  can 
settle  with  him  and  see  if  he  proves  as  generous  as  I  have  been. 
— Good-bye! 

He  goes  toward  the  left,  but  stops  before  he  reaches  the 
door. 


I 


CREDITORS  61 

Tekla.  [Goes  to  meet  Adolph  with  open  arms]  Adolpli! 

Adolph  leans  against  the  door-jamb  and  sinks  gradu- 
ally to  the  floor. 
Tekla.  [Throiving  herself  upon  his  prostrate  body  and  caress- 
ing him]  Adolph!  My  own  child!  Are  j'ou  still  alive — oh, 
speak,  speak ! — Please  forgive  your  nasty  Tekla !  Forgive  me, 
forgive  me,  forgive  me! — Little  brother  must  say  something, 
I  tell  him! — No,  good  God,  he  doesn't  hear!  He  is  dead! 
O  God  in  heaven !    O  my  God !    Help ! 

GusTAV.  Why,  she  really  must  have  loved  him,  too ! — Poor 
creature! 

Curtain, 


PARIAH 


I 


i 


PARIAH 
INTRODUCTION 

Both  "Creditors"  and  "Pariah"  were  written  in  the  winter 
of  1888-89  at  Holte,  near  Copenhagen,  where  Strindberg, 
assisted  by  his  first  wife,  was  then  engaged  in  starting  what  he 
called  a  "  Scandmavian  Experimental  Theatre."  In  March, 
1889,  the  two  plays  were  given  by  students  from  the  Univer- 
sity of  Copenhagen,  and  with  IVIrs.  von  Essen  Strindberg  as 
Tekla.  A  couple  of  weeks  later  the  performance  was  repeated 
across  the  Sound,  in  the  Swedish  city  of  Malmo,  on  which 
occasion  the  writer  of  this  introduction,  then  a  young  actor, 
assisted  in  the  stage  management.  One  of  the  actors  was 
Gustav  Wied,  a  Danish  playwright  and  novelist,  whose  ex- 
quisite art  since  then  has  won  him  European  fame.  In  the 
audience  was  Ola  Hansson,  a  Swedish  novelist  and  poet  who 
had  just  published  a  short  story  from  which  Strindberg,  ac- 
cording to  his  own  acknowledgment  on  playbill  and  title-page, 
had  taken  the  name  and  the  theme  of  "Pariah." 

Mr.  Hansson  has  printed  a  number  of  letters  {Tilslcueren, 
Copenhagen,  July,  1912)  written  to  him  by  Strindberg 
about  that  time,  as  well  as  some  very  informative  com- 
ments of  his  own.  Concerning  the  performance  of  Malmo  he 
writes:  "It  gave  me  a  very  unpleasant  sensation.  What  did 
it  mean.''  Why  had  Strindberg  turned  my  simple  theme  up- 
sidedown  so  that  it  became  unrecognisable.'*  Not  a  vestige 
of  the  'theme  from  Ola  Hansson'  remained.    Yet  he  had  even 

65 


66  PARIAH 

suggested  that  he  and  I  act  the  play  together,  I  not  knowing 
that  it  was  to  be  a  duel  between  two  criminals.  And  he  had 
at  first  planned  to  call  it  'Aryan  and  Pariah' — which  meant, 
of  course,  that  the  strong  ^Vryan,  Strindberg,  was  to  crush 
the  weak  Pariah,  Hansson.  coram  populo." 

In  regard  to  his  own  story  Mr.  Hansson  informs  us  that  it 
dealt  with  "a  man  who  commits  a  forgery  and  then  tells  about 
it,  doing  both  in  a  sort  of  somnambulistic  state  whereby  every- 
thing is  left  vague  and  undefined."  At  that  moment  "Ras- 
kolnikov"  was  in  the  air.  so  to  speak.  And  without  wanting 
in  any  way  to  suggest  imitation.  I  feel  sure  that  the  ground- 
note  of  the  story  was  distinctly  Dostoievskian.  Strindberg 
himself  had  been  reading  Nietzsche  and  was — largely  under 
the  pressure  of  a  reaction  against  the  popular  disapproval  of 
his  anti-feministic  attitude — being  driven  more  and  more  into 
a  superman  philosophy  which  reached  its  climax  in  the  two 
novels  "Chandalah"  (1889)  and  "At  the  Edge  of  the  Sea" 
(1890).  The  Nietzschean  note  is  unmistakable  in  the  two 
plays  contained  in  the  present  volume. 

But  these  plays  are  strongly  colored  by  something  else — 
by  something  that  is  neither  Hansson-Dostoievski  nor  Strind- 
berg-Nietzsche.  The  solution  of  the  problem  is  found  in  the 
letters  published  by  Mr.  Hansson.  These  show  that  while 
Strindberg  was  still  planning  "Cretlitors,"  and  before  he  had 
begun  "Pariah,"  he  had  borrowed  from  Hansson  a  volume 
of  tales  by  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  It  was  his  first  acquaintance 
with  the  work  of  Poe,  though  not  with  American  literature 
— for  among  hLs  first  printed  work  was  a  series  of  transla- 
tions from  American  humourists;  and  not  long  ago  a  Swedish 
critic  (Gunnar  Castren  in  Samiidcii,  Christiania,  June.  1912) 
wrote  of  Strindberg's  literary  beginnings  that  "he  had  learned 
much  from  Swedish  literature,  but  probably  more  from  Mark 
Twain  and  Dickens." 


INTRODUCTION  67 

The  impression  Poe  made  on  Strindberg  was  overw  helming. 
He  returns  to  it  in  one  letter  after  another.  Everything  that 
suits  his  mood  of  the  moment  is  "Poesque"  or  "E.  P-esque." 
The  story  that  seems  to  have  made  the  deepest  impression  of 
all  was  "The  Gold  Bug,"  though  his  thought  seems  to  have 
distilled  more  useful  material  out  of  certain  other  stories  illus- 
trating Poe's  theories  about  mental  suggestion.  Under  the 
direct  influence  of  these  theories,  Strindberg,  according  to 
his  own  statements  to  Hansson,  wrote  the  powerful  one-act 
play  "Simoom,"  and  made  Gustav  in  "Creditors"  actually 
call  forth  the  latent  epileptic  tendencies  in  Adolph.  And  on 
the  same  authority  we  must  trace  the  method  of  psycholog- 
ical detection  practised  by  Mr.  X.  in  "Pariah"  directly  to 
"The  Gold  Bug." 

Here  we  have  the  reason  why  IVIr.  Hansson  could  find  so 
little  of  his  story  in  the  play.  And  here  we  have  the  origin  of 
a  theme  which,  while  not  quite  new  to  him,  was  ever  after- 
ward to  remain  a  favourite  one  with  Strindberg :  that  of  a  duel 
between  intellect  and  cunning.  It  forms  the  basis  of  such 
novels  as  "Chandalah"  and  "At  the  Edge  of  the  Sea,"  but 
it  recurs  in  subtler  form  in  works  of  much  later  date.  To 
readers  of  the  present  day,  Mr.  X. — that  strikmg  antithesis 
of  everything  a  scientist  used  to  stand  for  in  poetry — is  much 
less  interesting  as  a  superman  in  spe  than  as  an  illustration  of 
what  a  morally  and  mentally  normal  man  can  do  with  the 
tools  furnished  him  by  our  new  understanding  of  human  ways 
and  human  motives.  And  in  givmg  us  a  play  that  holds  our 
interest  as  firmly  as  the  best  "love  plot"  ever  devised, 
although  the  stage  shows  us  only  two  men  engaged  in  an  in- 
tellectual wrestling  match,  Strindberg  took  another  great  step 
toward  ridding  the  drama  of  its  old,  shackhng  conventions. 

The  name  of  this  play  has  sometimes  been  translated  as 
"The  Outcast,"  whereby  it  becomes  confused  with  "The  Out- 


68  PARIAH 

law,"  a  much  earlier  play  on  a  theme  from  the  old  Sagas. 
I  think  it  better,  too,  that  the  Hindu  allusion  in  the  Swedish 
title  be  not  lost,  for  the  best  of  men  may  become  an  outcast, 
but  the  baseness  of  the  Pariah  is  not  supposed  to  spring  only 
from  lack  of  social  position. 


PARIAH 

AN  ACT 
1889 


PERSONS 


Mr.  X.,  an  archceologist  (^ 

Mr.  Y.,  an  American  traveller  ) 


Middle-aged  men. 


SCENE 

A  simply  furnished  room  in  a  farm-house.  The  door  and  the 
windows  in  the  back-ground  open  on  a  landscape.  In  the  middle 
of  the  room  stands  a  big  dining-table,  covered  at  one  end  by  books, 
writing  materials,  and  antiquities;  at  the  other  end  by  a  micro- 
scope, insect  cases,  and  specimen  jars  full  of  alchohol. 

On  the  left  side  hangs  a  bookshelf.  Otherwise  the  furniture 
is  that  of  a  well-to-do  farmer. 


••  THi:      .sraONGKn."      a    plav    by    Avigust 
Strinilr.erp. 

TianaUtion  bv  Kdlth  and  Wuin/r  Olanf). 

>Ir.«.    X • .- .  Mabel   Moore 

M!.--«  Y Hedwtg  R' "      " 

A  WHlUir-.-^ Marjoii?  lidnn' 

••  PAllfAII."   a   pla;.    by  Aupu^-l  Strin.lberg. 
Tr<nmlailoii  by  Edwin  lijorkman. 

Mr.   X .-.WalUV  Tl;in 

Mr.    V , Frank   !:• 

Forty-elgnth  Street  Theatre. 


PARIAH 

Mr.  Y.  enters  in  his  shirtsleeves,  carrying  a  butterfly-net  and  a 
botany-can.  He  goes  straight  up  to  the  book-shelf  and  takes 
down  a  book,  which  he  begins  to  read  on  the  spot. 

The  landscape  outside  and  the  room  itself  are  steeped  in  sunlight. 
The  ringing  of  church  bells  indicates  that  the  morning  ser- 
vices are  ju^t  over.  Now  and  then  the  cackling  of  hens  is 
heard  from  the  outside. 

Mr.  X.  enters,  also  in  his  shirt-sleeves. 

Mr.  Y.  starts  violently,  puts  the  book  back  on  the  shelf  upside- 
doion,  and  pretends  to  be  looking  for  another  volume. 

Mr.  X.  This  heat  is  horrible.  I  guess  we  are  going  to  have 
a  thunderstorm. 

Mr.  Y.  What  makes  you  think  so? 

Mr.  X.  The  bells  have  a  kind  of  dry  ring  to  them,  the  flies 
are  sticky,  and  the  hens  cackle.  I  meant  to  go  fishing,  but  I 
couldn't  find  any  worms.    Don't  you  feel  nervous.^ 

Mr.  Y.  [Cautiously]  I.=— A  little. 

Mr.  X.  Well,  for  that  matter,  you  always  look  as  if  you 
were  expecting  thunderstorms. 

Mr.  Y.  [With  a  staH]  Do  I? 

Mr.  X.  Now,  you  are  going  away  to-morrow,  of  course,  so 
it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  you  are  a  little  "journey- 
proud." — Anything  new.^ — Oh,  there's  the  mail!  [Picks  up 
some  letters  from  the  table]  Mjs  I  have  palpitation  of  the  heart 
every  time  I  open  a  letter!  Nothing  but  debts,  debts,  debts! 
Have  you  ever  had  any  debts.'* 

71 


72  PARIAH 

Mb.  Y.  [After  some  reflection]  N-no. 

Mr.  X.  Well,  then  you  don't  know  what  it  means  to  re- 
ceive a  lot  of  overdue  bills.  [Reads  one  of  the  Irttcrs]  The  rent 
unpaid — the  landlord  acting  nasty — my  wife  in  despair.  And 
here  am  I  sitting  waist-high  in  gold!  [He  opens  an  iron-banded 
box  that  stands  on  the  table;  then  both  sit  down  at  the  table,  fac- 
ing each  other]  Just  look — here  I  have  six  thousand  crowns' 
worth  of  gold  which  I  have  dug  up  in  the  la.st  fortnight.  This 
bracelet  alone  would  bring  me  the  three  hundred  and  fifty 
crowns  I  need.  And  with  all  of  it  I  might  make  a  fine  career 
for  myself.  Then  I  could  get  the  illustrations  made  for  my 
treatise  at  once;  I  could  get  my  work  printixl,  and — I  could 
travel!     ^^^ly  don't  I  do  it,  do  you  suppose? 

Mu.  Y.  I  sujipose  you  are  afraid  to  be  found  out. 

Mr.  X.  That,  too,  perhaps.  But  don't  you  think  an  intel- 
ligent fellow  like  myself  might  fix  matters  so  that  he  was 
never  found  out?  I  am  alone  all  the  time — with  nolwMly 
watching  me — while  I  am  digging  out  there  in  the  fields.  It 
wouldn't  be  strange  if  I  put  sometliing  in  ray  own  pockets  now 
and  then. 

Mu.  Y.  Yes.  but  the  worst  danger  lies  in  disposing  of  the 
stufT. 

Mi{.  X.  Pooli!  I'd  nult  it  down,  of  course — every  bit  of 
it — and  then  I'd  turn  it  into  coins — with  just  as  much  gold 
in  them  as  genuine  ones,  of  course 

Mr.  Y.  Of  course! 

Mr.  X.  Well,  you  can  easily  sec  why.  For  if  I  wanted  to 
dabble  in  counterfeits,  then  I  need  not  go  digging  for  gold 
first.  [Pause]  It  is  a  strange  thing  anyhow,  that  if  anybody 
else  did  what  I  cannot  make  myself  do,  then  I'd  be  willing  to 
acquit  him — but  I  couldn't  possibly  acquit  myself.  I  might 
even  make  a  brilliant  speech  in  defence  of  the  thit^f.  proving 
that  this  gold  was  res  nullius,  or  nobody's,  as  it  had  been  de- 


PARIAH  73 

posited  at  a  time  when  property  rights  did  not  yet  exist; 
that  even  under  existing  rights  it  could  belong  only  to  the  first 
finder  of  it,  as  the  ground-owner  has  never  included  it  in  the 
valuation  of  his  property;   and  so  on. 

Mr.  Y.  And  probably  it  would  be  much  easier  for  you  to  do 
this  if  the — hm ! — the  thief  had  not  been  prompted  by  actual 
need,  but  by  a  mania  for  collecting,  for  instance — or  by 
scientific  aspirations — by  the  ambition  to  keep  a  discovery  to 
himself.    Don't  you  think  so? 

Mr.  X.  You  mean  that  I  could  not  acquit  him  if  actual 
need  had  been  the  motive?  Yes,  for  that's  the  only  motive 
which  the  law  will  not  accept  in  extenuation.  That  motive 
makes  a  plain  theft  of  it. 

Mr.  Y.  And  this  you  coiddn't  excuse? 

Mr.  X.  Oh,  excuse — no,  I  guess  not,  as  the  law  wouldn't. 
On  the  other  hand,  I  must  admit  that  it  would  be  hard  for  me 
to  charge  a  collector  with  theft  merely  because  he  had  ap- 
propriated some  specimen  not  yet  represented  in  his  own  col- 
lection. 

Mr.  Y.  So  that  vanity  or  ambition  might  excuse  what 
could  not  be  excused  by  need? 

Mr.  X.  And  yet  need  ought  to  be  the  more  telling  excuse 
— the  only  one,  in  fact?  But  I  feel  as  I  have  said.  And  I 
can  no  more  change  this  feeling  than  I  can  change  my  own 
determination  not  to  steal  under  any  circumstances  what- 
ever. 

Mr.  Y.  And  I  suppose  you  count  it  a  great  merit  that  you 
cannot — hm ! — steal  ? 

Mr.  X.  No,  my  disinclmation  to  steal  is  just  as  irresistible 
as  the  inclination  to  do  so  is  irresistible  with  some  people.  So 
it  cannot  be  called  a  merit.  I  cannot  do  it,  and  the  other 
one  cannot  refrain! — But  you  understand,  of  course,  that  I 
am  not  without  a  desire  to  own  this  gold.    Why  don't  I  take 


74  PARIAH 

it  then?    Because  I  cannot!    It's  an  inability — and  the  lack 
of  something  cannot  be  called  a  merit.    There! 

[Closes  tJie  box  with  a  slam. 

Straij  clouds  have  cast  their  shadoics  on  tJie  landscape  and 

darkened  the  room  now  and  then.    Note  it  grows  quite 

dark  as  tchen  a  thunderstorm  is  approaching. 

Mr.  X.  How  close  the  air  is!     I  guess  the  storm  is  coming 

all  right. 

Mr.  Y.  gets  up  and  shuts  the  door  and  all  tlie  windows. 
Mr.  X.  Are  you  afraid  of  thunder.^ 
Mr.  Y.  It's  just  as  well  to  be  careful. 
They  resume  their  seats  at  the  table. 
Mr.  X.  You're  a  curious  chap!    Here  you  come  dropping 
down  like  a  bomb  a  fortnight  ago,  introducing  yourself  as 
a  Swedish-American  who  is  collecting  flies  for  a  small  mu- 


seum  

Mr.  Y.  Oh,  never  mind  me  now! 

Mr.  X.  That's  what  you  always  say  when  I  grow  tired  of 
talking  about  myself  and  want  to  turn  my  attention  to  you. 
Perhaps  that  was  the  reason  why  I  took  to  you  as  I  did — be- 
cause you  let  me  talk  about  myself?  All  at  once  we  seemed  like 
old  friends.  There  were  no  angles  about  you  against  which  I 
could  bump  myself,  no  pins  that  pricked.  There  was  some- 
thing soft  about  your  whole  person,  and  you  overflowed  with 
that  tact  which  only  well-educated  people  know  how  to  show. 
You  never  made  a  noise  when  you  came  home  late  at  night 
or  got  up  early  in  the  morning.  You  were  patient  in  small 
things,  and  you  gave  in  whenever  a  conflict  seemed  threat- 
ening. In  a  word,  you  proved  yourself  the  perfect  companion ! 
But  you  were  entirely  too  compliant  not  to  set  me  wondering 
about  you  in  the  long  run — and  you  are  too  timid,  too  easily 
frightened.  It  seems  almost  as  if  you  were  made  up  of  two 
different  personalities.     Why,  as  I  sit  here  looking  at  your 


PARIAH  75 

back  in  the  mirror  over  there — it  is  as  if  I  were  looking  at 
somebody  else. 

Mk.  Y.  turns  around  and  stares  at  the  mirror. 

Mr.  X.  No,  you  cannot  get  a  glimpse  of  your  own  back, 
man! — In  front  you  appear  like  a  fearless  sort  of  fellow,  one 
meeting  his  fate  with  bared  breast,  but  from  behind — really, 
I  don't  want  to  be  impolite,  but — you  look  as  if  you  were 
carrying  a  burden,  or  as  if  you  were  crouching  to  escape  a 
raised  stick.  And  when  I  look  at  that  red  cross  your  suspend- 
ers make  on  your  white  shirt — well,  it  looks  to  me  hke  some 
kind  of  emblem,  hke  a  trade-mark  on  a  packing-box 

IMr.  Y.  I  feel  as  if  I'd  choke — if  the  storm  doesn't  break 
soon 

Mr.  X.  It's  coming — don't  you  worry! — And  your  neck! 
It  looks  as  if  there  ought  to  be  another  kind  of  face  on  top  of 
it,  a  face  quite  diflFerent  in  type  from  yours.  And  your  ears 
come  so  close  together  behind  that  sometimes  I  wonder  what 
race  you  belong  to.  [A  flash  of  lightning  lights  up  the  room] 
^^^ly,  it  looked  as  if  that  might  have  struck  the  sheriff's 
house ! 

Mr.  Y.  [Alarmed]  The  sheriff's! 

JVIr.  X.  Oh,  it  just  looked  that  way.  But  I  don't  think 
we'll  get  much  of  this  storm.  Sit  down  now  and  let  us  have 
a  talk,  as  you  are  going  away  to-morrow.  One  thing  I  find 
strange  is  that  you,  with  whom  I  have  become  so  intimate  in 
this  short  time — that  you  are  one  of  those  whose  image  I 
cannot  call  up  when  I  am  away  from  them,  ^^^len  you  are 
not  here,  and  I  happen  to  think  of  you,  I  alwaj's  get  the  vision 
of  another  acquaintance — one  who  does  not  resemble  you,  but 
with  whom  you  have  certain  traits  in  common. 

Mr.  Y.  ^\llo  is  he.' 

Mr.  X.  I  don't  want  to  name  him,  but — I  used  for  several 
years  to  take  my  meals  at  a  certain  place,  and  there,  at  the 


76  PARIAH 

side-table  where  they  kept  the  whiskey  and  the  other  pre- 
liminaries, I  met  a  little  blond  man,  with  blond,  faded  eyes. 
He  had  a  wonderful  faculty  for  making  his  way  through  a 
crowd  without  jostling  anybody  or  being  jostled  himself. 
And  from  his  customary  place  down  by  the  door  he  seemed 
perfectly  able  to  reach  whatever  he  wanted  on  a  table  that 
stood  some  six  feet  away  from  him.  He  seemed  always  happy 
just  to  be  in  company.  But  when  he  met  anybody  he  knew, 
then  the  joy  of  it  made  him  roar  with  laughter,  and  he  would 
hug  and  pat  the  other  fellow  as  if  he  hadn't  seen  a  human  face 
for  years.  When  anybody  stepped  on  his  foot,  he  smiled  as 
if  eager  to  apologise  for  being  in  the  way.  For  two  years  I 
watched  him  and  amused  myself  by  guessing  at  his  occupa- 
tion and  character.  But  I  never  asked  who  he  was;  I  didn't 
want  to  know,  you  see,  for  then  all  the  fun  would  have  been 
spoiled  at  once.  That  man  had  just  your  quality  of  being  in- 
definite. At  different  times  I  made  him  out  to  be  a  teacher 
who  had  never  got  his  licence,  a  non-commissioned  officer, 
a  druggist,  a  government  clerk,  a  detective — and  like  you,  he 
looked  as  if  made  out  of  two  pieces,  for  the  front  of  him  never 
quite  fitted  the  back.  One  day  I  happened  to  read  in  a  news- 
paper about  a  big  forgery  committed  by  a  well-known  gov- 
ernment official.  Then  I  learned  that  my  indefinite  gentle- 
man had  been  a  partner  of  the  forger's  brother,  and  that  his 
name  was  Strawman.  Later  on  I  learned  that  the  aforesaid 
Strawman  used  to  run  a  circulating  library,  but  that  he  was 
now  the  police  reporter  of  a  big  daily.  How  in  the  world  could 
I  hope  to  establish  a  connection  between  the  forgery,  the 
police,  and  my  little  man's  peculiar  manners.''  It  was  beyond 
me;  and  when  I  asked  a  friend  whether  Strawman  had  ever 
been  punished  for  something,  my  friend  couldn't  answer 
either  yes  or  no — he  just  didn't  know!  [Pause. 

Mr.  Y.  Well,  had  he  ever  been — punished.' 


PARIAH  77 

Mr.  X.  No,  he  had  not.  [Pause. 

Mr.  Y.  And  that  was  the  reason,  you  think,  why  the  poHce 
had  such  an  attraction  for  him,  and  why  he  was  so  afraid  of 
offending  people? 

Mr.  X.  Exactly! 

Mr.  Y.  And  did  you  become  acquainted  with  him  after- 
ward.' 

Mr.  X.  No,  I  didn't  want  to.  [Pause. 

Mr.  Y.  Would  you  have  been  willing  to  make  his  acquaint- 
ance if  he  had  been — punished? 

]VIr.  X.  Perfectly! 

Mr.  Y.  rises  and  walks  back  and  forth  several  times. 

Mr.  X.  Sit  still!     Why  can't  you  sit  still? 

Mr.  Y.  How  did  you  get  your  liberal  view  of  human  con- 
ditions?    Are  you  a  Christian? 

Mr.  X.  Oh,  can't  you  see  that  I  am  not? 
Mr.  Y.  makes  a  face. 

Mr,  X.  The  Christians  require  forgiveness.  But  I  require 
punishment  in  order  that  the  balance,  or  whatever  you  may 
call  it,  be  restored.  And  you,  who  have  served  a  term,  ought  to 
know  the  difference. 

Mr.  Y.  [Stands  motionless  and  stares  at  Mr.  X.,  first  idth 
wild,  hateful  eyes,  then  with  surprise  and  admiration]  How — 
could — you — know — that? 

Mr.  X.  Why,  I  could  see  it. 

Mr.  Y.  How?    How  could  you  see  it? 

Mr.  X.  Oh,  with  a  little  practice.  It  is  an  art,  like  many 
others.  But  don't  let  us  talk  of  it  any  more.  [He  looks  at  his 
watch,  arranges  a  docximent  on  the  table,  dips  a  pen  in  the  ink- 
well, and  hands  it  to  Mr.  Y.]  I  must  be  thinking  of  my  tangled 
affairs.  Won't  you  please  witness  my  signature  on  this  note 
here?  I  am  going  to  turn  it  in  to  the  bank  at  Malmo  to-mor- 
row, when  I  go  to  the  city  with  you. 


78  PARIAH 

Mr.  Y.  I  am  not  going  by  way  of  Malmo. 

Mr.  X.  Oh,  you  are  not.' 

Mr.  Y.  No. 

Mr.  X.  But  that  need  not  prevent  you  from  witnessing  my 
signature. 

Mr.  Y.  N-no! — I  never  write  my  name  on  papers  of  that 
kind 

Mr.  X.  — any  longer!  This  is  the  fifth  time  you  have  re- 
fused to  write  your  own  name.  The  first  time  nothing  more 
serious  was  involved  than  the  receipt  for  a  registered  letter. 
Then  I  began  to  watch  you.  And  since  then  I  have  noticed 
that  you  have  a  morbid  fear  of  a  pen  filled  with  ink.  You 
have  not  written  a  suigle  letter  since  you  came  here — only  a 
post-card,  and  that  you  wrote  with  a  blue  pencil.  You  under- 
stand now  that  I  have  figured  out  the  exact  nature  of  your 
slip?  Furthermore!  This  is  something  like  the  seventh  time 
you  have  refused  to  come  with  me  to  Malmo,  which  place  you 
have  not  visited  at  all  during  all  this  time.  And  yet  you  came 
the  whole  way  from  America  merely  to  have  a  look  at  Malniii! 
And  every  morning  you  walk  a  couple  of  miles,  up  to  the  old 
mill,  just  to  get  a  glimpse  of  the  roofs  of  Malmo  in  the  distance. 
And  when  you  stand  over  there  at  the  right-hand  window  and 
look  out  through  the  third  pane  from  the  bottom  on  the  left 
side,  you  can  see  the  spired  turrets  of  the  castle  and  the  tall 
chimney  of  the  county  jail. — Aid  now  I  hope  you  see  that  it's 
your  own  stupidity  rather  than  my  cleverness  which  has  made 
everything  clear  to  me. 

Mr.  Y.  This  means  that  you  despise  me.'' 

Mr.  X.  Oh,  no! 

Mr.  Y.  Yes,  you  do — you  cannot  but  do  it! 

Mr.  X.  No— here's  my  hand. 

Mr.  Y.  takes  hold  of  the  outstretched  hand  and  hisses  U. 


PARIAH  79 

Mr.  X.  [Drawing  hack  his  hand]  Don't  lick  hands  like  a  dog ! 
Mr.  Y.  Pardon  me,  sir,  but  you  are  the  first  one  who  has 

let  me  touch  his  hand  after  learning 

Mr.  X.  And  now  you  call  me  "sir!" — What  scares  me 
about  you  is  that  you  don't  feel  exonerated,  washed  clean, 
raised  to  the  old  level,  as  good  as  anybody  else,  when  you  have 
suffered  your  punishment.  Do  you  care  to  tell  me  how  it 
happen ed-f*     Would  you? 

Mr.  Y.  [Twisting  uneasily]  Yes,  but  you  won't  believe  what 
I  say.  But  I'll  tell  you.  Then  you  can  see  for  yourself  that  I 
am  no  ordinary  criminal.  You'll  become  convinced,  I  think, 
that  ihere  are  errors  which,  so  to  speak,  are  involuntary — 
[twisting  again]  which  seem  to  commit  themselves — spon- 
taneously— without  being  willed  by  oneself,  and  for  which 
one  cannot  be  held  responsible —  May  I  open  the  door  a 
little  now,  since  the  storm  seems  to  have  passed  over? 
Mr.  X.  Suit  yourself. 

Mr.  Y.  [Opens  the  door;   then  he  sits  dmon  at  the  table  and 
begins  to  speak  with  exaggerated  display  of  feeling,  theatrical  ges- 
tures, and  a  good  deal  of  false  emphasis]  Yes,  I'll  tell  you!  I  was 
a  student  in  the  university  at  Lund,  and  I  needed  to  get  a  loan 
from  a  bank.    I  had  no  pressing  debts,  and  my  father  owned 
some  property — not  a  great  deal,  of  course.    However,  I  had 
sent  the  note  to  the  second  man  of  the  two  who  were  to  act  as 
security,  and,  contrary  to  expectations,  it  came  back  with  a 
refusal.    For  a  while  I  was  completely  stunned  by  the  blow, 
for  it  was  a  very  unpleasant  surprise — most  impleasant!    The 
note  was  lying  in  front  of  me  on  the  table,  and  the  letter  lay 
beside  it.    At  first  my  eyes  stared  hopelessly  at  those  lines 
that  pronounced  my  doom — that  is,  not  a  death-doom,  of 
course,  for  I  could  easily  find  other  securities,  as  many  as  I 
wanted — but  as  I  have  already  said,  it  was  very  annoying 
just  the  same.    And  as  I  was  sitting  there  quite  unconscious 


80  PARIAH 

of  any  evil  intention,  my  eyes  fastened  upon  the  signature  of 
the  letter,  which  would  have  made  my  future  secure  if  it  had 
only  appeared  in  the  riglit  place.  It  was  an  unusually  well- 
written  signature — and  you  know  how  sometimes  one  may 
absent-mindedly  scribble  a  sheet  of  paper  full  of  meaningless 
words.  I  had  a  pen  in  my  hand — [picks  up  a  penholder  from 
the  table]  like  this.  And  somehow  it  just  began  to  run— I 
don't  want  to  claim  that  there  was  anything  mystical — any- 
thing of  a  spiritualistic  nature  back  of  it — for  that  kind  of 
thing  I  don't  believe  in !  It  was  a  wholly  unreasoned,  mechan- 
ical process — my  copying  of  that  beautiful  autograph  over 
and  over  again.  When  all  the  clean  space  on  the  letter  was 
used  up,  I  had  learned  to  reproduce  the  signature  aiilo- 
maticall;s — and  then — [throwing  airaij  the  penholder  with  a 
violent  gesture]  then  I  forgot  all  about  it.  That  night  I  slept 
long  and  heavily.  And  when  I  woke  up,  I  couM  feel  that  I 
had  been  dreaming,  but  I  couldn't  recall  the  dream  itself. 
At  times  it  was  as  if  a  door  had  been  thrown  ajar,  and  then  I 
seemed  to  see  the  writing-table  with  the  note  on  it  as  in  a  dis- 
tant memory — and  when  I  got  out  of  bed,  I  was  force<l  up  to 
the  table,  just  as  if,  after  careful  deliberation,  I  had  formed  an 
irrevocable  decision  to  sign  the  name  to  that  fateful  paper. 
All  thought  of  the  consequences,  of  the  risk  involved,  had  dis- 
appeared— no  hesitation  remained — it  was  almost  as  if  I  was 
fulfilling  some  sacred  duty — and  so  I  wrote!  [Leaps  to  his 
feet]  What  could  it  be?  Was  it  some  kind  of  outside  influence, 
a  case  of  mental  suggestion,  as  they  call  it?  But  from  whom 
could  it  come?  I  was  sleeping  alone  in  that  room.  Could  it 
possibly  be  my  primitive  self — the  savage  to  whom  the  keep- 
ing of  faith  is  an  unknown  thing — which  pushed  to  the  front 
while  my  consciousness  was  asleep — together  with  the  crim- 
inal will  of  that  self,  and  its  inability  to  calculate  the  results 
of  an  action?    Tell  me,  what  do  you  think  of  it? 


PARIAH  81 

Mr.  X.  [As  if  he  had  to  force  the  words  out  of  himself] 
Frankly  speaking,  your  story  does  not  convince  me — there 
are  gaps  in  it,  but  these  may  depend  on  your  failure  to  recall 
all  the  details — and  I  have  read  something  about  criminal 
suggestion — or  I  think  I  have,  at  least — hm !  But  all  that  is 
neither  here  nor  there!  You  have  taken  your  medicine — and 
you  have  had  the  courage  to  acknowledge  your  fault.  Now 
we  won't  talk  of  it  any  more. 

Mr.  Y.  Yes,  yes,  yes,  we  must  talk  of  it — till  I  become  sure 
of  my  innocence. 

Mr.  X.  Well,  are  you  not? 

Mr.  Y.  No,  I  am  not! 

Mr.  X.  That's  just  what  bothers  me,  I  tell  you.  It's  ex- 
actly what  is  bothering  me! — Don't  you  feel  fairly  sure  that 
every  human  being  hides  a  skeleton  in  his  closet.''  Have  we 
not,  all  of  us,  stolen  and  lied  as  children.''  Undoubtedly! 
Well,  now  there  are  persons  who  remain  children  all  their 
lives,  so  that  they  cannot  control  their  unlawful  desires.  Then 
comes  the  opportunity,  and  there  you  have  your  criminal. — 
But  I  cannot  understand  why  you  don't  feel  innocent.  If  the 
child  is  not  held  responsible,  why  should  the  criminal  be  re- 
garded differently.'*  It  is  the  more  strange  because — well, 
perhaps  I  may  come  to  repent  it  later.  [Pause]  I,  for  my  part, 
have  killed  a  man,  and  I  have  never  suffered  any  qualms  on 
account  of  it. 

Mr.  Y.  [Very  much  interested]  Have — you? 

Mr.  X.  Yes,  I,  and  none  else!  Perhaps  you  don't  care  to 
shake  hands  with  a  murderer? 

Mr.  Y.  [Pleasantly]  Oh,  what  nonsense! 

Mr.  X.  Yes,  but  I  have  not  been  punished. 

Mr.  Y.  [Growing  more  familiar  and  taking  on  a  superior 
to7ie]  So  much  the  better  for  you! — How  did  you  get  out 
of  it? 


82  PARIAH 

Mr.  X.  There  was  nobody  to  accuse  me,  no  suspicions,  no 
witnesses.  This  is  the  way  it  happened.  One  Christmas  I 
was  invited  to  hunt  with  a  fellow-student  a  Httle  way  out  of 
Upsala.  He  sent  a  besotted  old  coachman  to  meet  me  at  the 
station,  and  this  fellow  went  to  sleep  on  the  box,  drove  the 
horses  into  a  fence,  and  u[)set  the  whole  equipage  in  a  ditch. 
I  am  not  going  to  pretend  that  my  life  was  in  danger.  It  was 
sheer  impatience  which  made  me  hit  him  across  the  neck  with 
the  edge  of  my  hand — you  know  the  way — just  to  wake  him 
up — and  the  result  was  that  he  never  woke  up  at  all,  but  col- 
lapsed then  and  there. 

Mr.  Y.  [Craftily]  And  did  you  report  it.' 

Mr.  X.  No,  and  these  were  my  reasons  for  not  doing  so. 
The  man  left  no  family  behind  him,  or  anybody  else  to  whom 
his  life  could  be  of  the  slightest  use.  He  had  already  outlived 
his  allotted  period  of  vegetation,  and  his  place  might  just  as 
well  be  filled  by  somebody  more  in  need  of  it.  On  the  other 
hand,  my  life  was  necessary  to  the  happiness  of  my  parents 
and  myself,  and  perhaps  also  to  the  progress  of  my  science. 
The  outcome  had  once  for  all  cure<I  me  of  any  desire  to  wake 
up  people  in  that  manner,  and  I  didn't  care  to  spoil  both  my 
own  life  and  that  of  my  parents  for  the  sake  of  an  abstract 
principle  of  justice. 

Mr.  Y.  Oh,  that's  the  way  you  measure  the  value  of  a 
human  life? 

Mr.  X.  In  the  present  case,  yes. 

Mr.  Y.  But  the  sense  of  guilt — that  balance  you  were 
speaking  of.** 

Mr.  X.  I  had  no  sense  of  guilt,  as  I  had  committed  no 
crime.  As  a  boy  I  had  given  and  taken  more  than  one  blow 
of  the  same  kind,  and  the  fatal  outcome  in  this  particular 
case  was  simply  caused  by  my  ignorance  of  the  eflFect  such  a 
blow  might  have  on  an  elderly  person. 


PARIAH  83 

Mr.  Y.  Yes,  but  even  the  unintentional  killing  of  a  man 
is  punished  with  a  two-year  term  at  hard  labour — which  is 
exactly  what  one  gets  for — writing  names. 

Mr.  X.  Oh,  you  may  be  sure  I  have  thought  of  it.  And 
more  than  one  night  I  have  dreamt  myself  in  prison.  Tell 
me  now — is  it  really  as  bad  as  they  say  to  find  oneself  behind 
bolt  and  bar? 

Mr.  Y.  You  bet  it  is! — First  of  all  they  disfigure  you  by 
cutting  off  your  hair,  and  if  you  don't  look  like  a  criminal 
before,  you  are  sure  to  do  so  afterward.  And  when  you 
catch  sight  of  yourself  in  a  mirror  you  feel  quite  sure  that  you 
are  a  regular  bandit. 

Mr.  X.  Isn't  it  a  mask  that  is  being  torn  oflF,  perhaps? 
Which  wouldn't  be  a  bad  idea,  I  should  say. 

Mr.  Y,  Yes,  you  can  have  your  little  jest  about  it! — And 
then  they  cut  down  your  food,  so  that  every  day  and  every 
hour  you  become  conscious  of  the  border  line  between  life  and 
death.  Every  vital  function  is  more  or  less  checked.  You 
can  feel  yourself  shrinking.  And  your  soul,  which  was  to  be 
cured  and  improved,  is  instead  put  on  a  starvation  diet — 
pushed  back  a  thousand  years  into  outlived  ages.  You  are 
not  permitted  to  read  anything  but  what  was  written  for  the 
savages  who  took  part  in  the  migration  of  the  peoples.  You 
hear  of  nothing  but  what  will  never  happen  in  heaven;  and 
what  actually  does  happen  on  the  earth  is  kept  hidden  from 
you.  You  are  torn  out  of  your  surroundings,  reduced  from 
your  own  class,  put  beneath  those  who  are  really  beneath 
yourself.  Then  you  get  a  sense  of  living  in  the  bronze  age. 
You  come  to  feel  as  if  you  were  dressed  in  skins,  as  if  you 
were  living  in  a  cave  and  eating  out  of  a  trough — ugh! 

Mr.  X.  But  there  is  reason  back  of  all  that.  One  who  acts 
as  if  he  belonged  to  the  bronze  age  might  surely  be  expected 
to  don  the  proper  costume. 


84  PARIAH 

Mr.  Y.  [Irately]  Yes,  you  sneer!  You  who  have  behaved 
like  a  man  from  the  stone  age — and  who  are  permitted  to  live 
in  the  golden  age. 

^1b.  X,  [Sharply,  icatching  him  closely]  What  do  you  mean 
with  that  last  expression — the  golden  age? 

Mr.  Y.  [With  a  poorly  suppressed  snarl]  Nothing  at  all. 

;Mr.  X.  X'ow  you  lie — because  you  are  too  much  of  a 
coward  to  say  all  you  think. 

Mr.  Y.  Am  I  a  coward?  You  think  so?  But  I  was  no 
coward  when  I  dared  to  show  myself  around  here,  where  I 
had  had  to  suffer  as  I  did. — But  can  you  tell  what  makes  one 
suffer  most  while  in  there? — It  is  that  the  others  are  not  in 
there  too! 

Mr.  X.  'SMiat  others? 

Mr.  Y.  Those  that  go  unpunished. 

Mr.  X.  Are  you  thinking  of  me? 

Mr.  Y.  I  am. 

Mr.  X.  But  I  have  committed  no  crime. 

Mr.  Y.  Oh,  haven't  you? 

Mr.  X.  No,  a  misfortune  is  no  crime. 

Mr.  Y.  So,  it's  a  misfortune  to  commit  murder? 

Mr.  X.  I  have  not  committed  murder. 

Mr.  Y.  Is  it  not  murder  to  kill  a  person? 

Mr.  X.  Not  always.  The  law  speaks  of  murder,  man- 
slaughter, killing  in  self-defence — and  it  makes  a  distinction 
between  intentional  and  unintentional  killing.  However — 
now  you  really  frighten  me,  for  it's  becoming  plain  to  me  that 
you  belong  to  the  most  dangerous  of  all  human  groups — that 
of  the  stupid. 

Mr.  Y.  So  you  imagine  that  I  am  stupid?  Well,  listen — 
would  you  like  me  to  show  you  how  clever  I  am? 

Mr.  X.  Come  on! 

Mr.  Y.  I  think  you'll  have  to  admit  that  there  is  both 


PARIAH  85 

logic  and  wisdom  in  the  argument  I'm  now  going  to  give  you. 
You  have  suffered  a  misfortune  which  might  have  brought 
you  two  years  at  hard  labor.  You  have  completely  escaped 
the  disgrace  of  being  punished.  And  here  you  see  before  you 
a  man — who  has  also  suffered  a  misfortune — the  victim  of  an 
unconscious  impulse — and  who  has  had  to  stand  two  years 
of  hard  labor  for  it.  Only  by  some  great  scientific  achieve- 
ment can  this  man  wipe  off  the  taint  that  has  become  attached 
to  him  without  any  fault  of  his  own — but  in  order  to  arrive 
at  some  such  achievement,  he  must  have  money — a  lot  of 
money — and  money  this  minute!  Don't  you  think  that  the 
other  one,  the  impunished  one,  would  bring  a  Httle  better  bal- 
ance into  these  imequal  human  conditions  if  he  paid  a  penalty 
in  the  form  of  a  fine?    Don't  you  think  so.' 

:Me.  X.  [Calmly]  Yes. 

Mk.  Y.  Then  we  understand  each  other. — Hml  [Pause] 
What  do  you  think  would  be  reasonable.' 

!Me.  X.  Reasonable.^  The  minimum  fine  in  such  a  case  is 
fixed  by  the  law  at  fifty  crowns.  But  this  whole  question  is 
settled  by  the  fact  that  the  dead  man  left  no  relatives. 

'Mr.  Y.  Apparently  you  don't  want  to  understand.  Then 
I'll  have  to  speak  plainly :  it  is  to  me  you  must  pay  that  fine. 

!Mr.  X.  I  have  never  heard  that  forgers  have  the  right  to 
collect  fines  imposed  for  manslaughter.  And,  besides,  there 
is  no  prosecutor. 

ISIn.  Y.  There  isn't.'     Well — how  would  I  do? 

]Mr.  X.  Oh,  now  we  are  getting  the  matter  cleared  up! 
How  much  do  you  want  for  becoming  my  accompHce? 

1Mb.  Y.  Six  thousand  crowns. 

Me.  X.  That's  too  much.    And  where  am  I  to  get  them? 
Mr.  Y.  points  to  the  box. 

Mb,  X.  Xo,  I  don't  want  to  do  that.  I  don't  want  to  be- 
come a  thief. 


86  PARIAH 

Mr.  Y.  Oh,  don't  put  on  any  airs  now!  Do  you  think  I'll 
believe  that  you  haven't  helped  yourself  out  of  that  box  be- 
fore? 

Mr.  X.  [As  if  speaking  to  himself]  Think  only,  that  I  could 
let  myself  be  fooled  so  completely.  But  that's  the  way  with 
these  soft  natures.  You  like  them,  and  then  it's  so  easj'  to 
believe  that  they  like  you.  And  that's  the  reason  why  I  have 
always  been  on  mj'  guard  against  people  I  take  a  liking  to! — 
So  you  are  firmly  convinced  that  I  have  helped  myself  out  of 
the  box  before? 

Mr.  Y.  Certainly! 

Mr.  X.  And  you  are  going  to  report  me  if  you  don't  get 
six  thousand  crowns? 

Mr.  Y.  Most  decidedly !  You  can't  get  out  of  it,  ?o  there's 
no  use  trying. 

Mr.  X.  You  think  I  am  going  to  give  ray  father  a  thief 
for  son.  my  wife  a  thief  for  husband,  my  children  a  thief  for 
father,  my  fellow -workers  a  thief  for  colleague?  No,  that  will 
never  happen! — Now  I  am  going  over  to  the  sheriff  to  report 
the  killing  myself. 

Mr.  Y.  [Jumps  up  and  begins  to  pick  up  his  things]  Wait 
a  moment! 

Mr.  X.  For  what? 

Mr.  Y,  [Stammering]  Oh,  I  thought — as  I  am  no  longer 
needed — it  wouldn't  be  necessary  for  me  to  stay — and  I  might 
just  as  well  leave. 

Mr.  X.  No,  you  may  not! — Sit  down  there  at  the  table, 
where  you  sat  before,  and  we'll  have  another  talk  before  you 

go. 

Mr.  Y.  [Sits  down  after  having  put  on  a  dark  coat]  What  are 
you  up  to  now? 

Mr.  X.  [Looking  into  the  mirror  back  of  Mr.  Y.]  Oh,  now 
I  have  it!    Oh-h-h! 


PARIAH  87 

Mr.  Y.  [Alarmed]  What  kind  of  wonderful  things  are  you 
discovering  now? 

Mr.  X.  I  see  in  the  mirror  that  you  are  a  thief — a  plaia, 
ordinary  thief!  A  moment  ago,  while  you  had  only  the  white 
shirt  on,  I  could  notice  that  there  was  something  wrong  about 
my  book-shelf.  I  couldn't  make  out  just  what  it  was,  for  I 
had  to  listen  to  you  and  watch  you.  But  as  my  antipathy  in- 
creased, my  vision  became  more  acute.  And  now,  with  your 
black  coat  to  furnish  the  needed  color  contrast  for  the  red  back 
of  the  book,  which  before  couldn't  be  seen  against  the  red  of 
your  suspenders — now  I  see  that  you  have  been  reading  about 
forgeries  in  Bernheim's  work  on  mental  suggestion — for  you 
turned  the  book  upsidedown  in  putting  it  back.  So  even  that 
story  of  yours  was  stolen !  For  this  reason  I  think  myself  en- 
titled to  conclude  that  your  crime  must  have  been  prompted 
by  need,  or  by  mere  love  of  pleasure. 

Mr.  Y.  By  need !    If  you  only  knew 

Mr.  X.  If  yoH  only  knew  the  extent  of  the  need  I  have  had 
to  face  and  live  through!  But  that's  another  story!  Let's 
proceed  with  your  case.  That  you  have  been  in  prison — I 
take  that  for  granted.  But  it  happened  in  America,  for  it  was 
American  prison  life  you  described.  Another  thing  may  also 
be  taken  for  granted,  namely,  that  you  have  not  borne  your 
punishment  on  this  side. 

Mr.  Y.  How  can  you  imagine  anything  of  the  kind.'' 

Mr.  X.  Wait  until  the  sheriflf  gets  here,  and  you'll  learn 
all  about  it. 

Mr.  Y.  gets  up. 

Mr.  X.  There  you  see!  The  first  time  I  mentioned  the 
sheriff,  in  connection  with  the  storm,  you  wanted  also  to  run 
away.  And  when  a  person  has  served  out  his  time  he  doesn't 
care  to  visit  an  old  mill  every  day  just  to  look  at  a  prison,  or 
to  stand  by  the  window — in  a  word,  you  are  at  once  punished 


88  PARIAH 

and  unpunished.    And  that's  why  it  was  so  hard  to  make  you 
out.  [Pause. 

Mr.  Y.  [Comfhtehj  beaten]  May  I  go  now.' 

Mr.  X.  Now  you  can  go. 

Mr.  Y.  [Putting  his  things  together]  Are  you  angry  at  me? 

Mr.  X.  Yes — would  you  prefer  me  to  pity  you.? 

Mr.  Y.  [SuUcily]  Pity.'  Do  you  think  you're  any  better 
than  I? 

Mr.  X.  Of  course  I  do.  as  I  am  belter  than  you.  I  am 
wiser,  and  I  am  less  of  a  menace  to  prevaihng  jiropcrty  rights. 

Mr.  Y.  You  think  you  are  clever,  but  perhaps  I  am  as 
clever  as  you.  For  the  moment  you  have  me  checked,  but  in 
the  next  move  I  can  mate  you — all  the  same! 

Mr.  X.  [looking  hard  at  Mr.  Y.]  So  we  have  to  have 
another  bout!    What  kind  of  mischief  are  you  up  to  now? 

Mr.  Y.  That's  my  secret. 

Mr.  X.  Just  look  at  me — oh,  you  mean  to  write  my  wife 
an  anonymous  letter  giving  away  viy  secret! 

Mr.  Y.  Well,  how  are  you  going  to  prevent  it?  You  don't 
dare  to  have  me  arrested.  So  you'll  have  to  let  me  go.  And 
when  I  am  gone,  I  can  do  what  I  please. 

Mr.  X.  You  devil!  So  you  have  found  my  vulnerable  spot! 
Do  you  want  to  make  a  real  murderer  out  of  me? 

Mr.  Y.  That's  more  than  you'll  ever  become — coward ! 

Mr.  X.  There  you  see  how  different  people  are.  You  have 
a  feeling  that  I  cannot  become  guilty  of  tlie  same  kind  of  acts 
as  you.  And  tliat  gives  you  the  upper  hand.  But  suppose  you 
forced  me  to  treat  you  as  I  treated  that  coachman? 

[lie  lifts  his  hand  as  if  ready  to  hit  Mr.  Y. 

Mr.  Y.  [Staring  Mr.  X.  straight  in  the  face]  You  can't! 
It's  too  much  for  one  who  couldn't  save  himself  by  means  of 
the  box  over  there. 


PARIAH  89 

]Mr.  X.  So  you  don't  think  I  have  taken  anything  out  of 
the  box? 

Mr.  Y.  You  were  too  cowardly — just  as  you  were  too 
cowardly  to  tell  your  wife  that  she  had  married  a  murderer. 

1Mb.  X.  You  are  a  different  man  from  what  I  took  you  to 
be — if  stronger  or  weaker,  I  cannot  tell — if  more  criminal  or 
less,  that's  none  of  my  concern — but  decidedly  more  stupid; 
that  much  is  quite  plain.    For  stupid  you  were  when  you  wrote  i 

another  person's  name  instead  of  begging — as  I  have  had  to  ^^ 
do.  Stupid  you  were  when  you  stole  things  out  of  my  book —  [ 
could  you  not  guess  that  I  might  have  read  my  own  books? 
Stupid  you  were  when  you  thought  yourself  cleverer  than  me, 
and  when  you  thought  that  I  could  be  lured  into  becoming  a 
thief.  Stupid  you  were  when  you  thought  balance  could  be 
restored  by  giving  the  world  two  thieves  instead  of  one.  But 
most  stupid  of  all  you  were  when  you  thought  I  had  failed  to 
provide  a  safe  corner-stone  for  my  happiness.  Go  ahead  and 
write  my  wife  as  many  anonymous  letters  as  you  please  about 
her  husband  having  killed  a  man — she  knew  that  long  before 
we  were  married! — Have  you  had  enough  now? 

Mb.  Y.  May  I  go? 

Mb.  X.  Now  you  have  to  go!  And  at  once!  I'll  send  your 
things  after  you! — Get  out  of  here! 

Curtain. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIHRARV 
Los  Angeles 

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